


Saturday Tea

by Isscha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Malfoy Manor, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-10-01 20:12:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17250632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isscha/pseuds/Isscha
Summary: It wasn’t every day Harry Potter strode up one’s front walk, especially when the manor on the other end of the path was one where he and his friends had been tortured by members of her own family.





	1. Saturday, 7 June

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own.
> 
> There will be 26 chapters and an epilogue.
> 
> Rated Mature for later chapters.
> 
> Most of the chapters will be fairly short.
> 
> Eventual Drarry.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

# Saturday, 7 June

## Narcissa

~~*~*~~

 

Narcissa stands at a window facing the entrance to the manor, the tell-tale sound of apparition as well as a ting from the wards informing her of an unexpected visitor drawing her there in an attempt to see who is brave enough to face the Malfoys these days.  She supposes that with his father in Azkaban, it is Draco’s responsibility now to mind the wards and greet the guests, but she also knows that he is still trying to find his equilibrium after being informed by the Wizengamot that numerous character witnesses had come forward and his name was cleared and he was free to go.

 

She wonders daily if it was his doing, the young man currently walking up to her front door.  She watches him walk through the gate and pause every other step or so to look at the plants or to pat a peacock on the head, curious why the saviour of the wizarding world would come to _their_ front door, come back to the place he and his friends had been so terrified and tortured.  He has done enough for them, more than any of them deserved, really.

 

He’s shuffling his feet now, obviously nervous as he makes motions to knock at the door.  She hides a smile and calls her personal elf, Tibby, and asks her to bring Mr. Potter to the tea room when he finally works up the nerve to knock, and makes her own way there.  She primly waits for the sound of knocking to echo through the hallways, hiding her curiosity at his visit behind the mask all pureblood wizards and witches are taught from birth.  

 

She watches him impassively as Tibby leads him to a seat.  He mutters his thanks and fidgets with the edge of the table cloth. She gives a small cough to grab his attention and she motions to the light spread of mini sandwiches, scones, and fruit.  “Join me for tea, Mr. Potter.”

 

He nods jerkily, and places a scone on his plate, and they sit in silence.  She’s content to wait for him to speak.

 

He clears his throat and thanks her for her actions in the forest.

 

She raises an eyebrow, and states plainly that she did it for Draco - even if she wants to admit that it was purely mother instincts she never intends to.

 

 

Harry seemingly forgets where he is and who he’s with briefly and lets out a scoff.  “Mrs. Malfoy, I’m going to call bullshit. If that were true, you would’ve still just said “alive” after I gave you your answer, so forgive me for not buying that story.”  

 

He suddenly seems to remember where he is and cringes into himself, his body language screaming anxiety and fear that he is about to be thrown out of the manor.  Stuttering apologies for his rude behaviour, he makes ready to stand to leave.

 

She’s unable to keep it in any longer and she smiles softly at him, ignoring his stunned look at the action and motions for him to remain seated.   “As you say.” She says simply. She supposes it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to admit he is correct in this instance.

 

Three very simple words.  Not much meaning, on the surface.  But she can see that for him, it means a lot that an adult has simply accepted his word and has an idle thought that it perhaps it is the first time one has done so.  She wonders how this will affect his odd little visit.

 

She doesn’t have long to wait.

 

“My mother died wishing to save me, without even knowing she had succeeded.”  He begins, staring down at his cup of tea.

 

She can see the pain behind the words, both emotionally and psychologically. It’s written all over his face.  She remains quiet, and waits for him as she takes a small drink of her tea.

 

He continues.  “Her willingness to die for me created a sort of...bond.  Dumbledore never explained it very well to me, but it kept Voldemort from being able to harm me.  To be honest, my mum was really the one who defeated the bastard both times, I was just uncannily lucky.”

 

She makes a little mutter of agreement with the sentiment of the Dark Lord being a bastard and hides a smile at his look of surprise.  Regardless of what he may think, and who she may have married, she is not an evil person. Perhaps she views purebloods as being the backbone of Wizard kind, but she is not a monster like the now dead Lord.  There are still parts of the manor that she deems uninhabitable and it will remain as thus until the dark taint can be purged and she simply doesn’t have the knowledge to do so herself. And not many are willing to aid the wife of a convicted Death Eater.  

 

“My son is the most important person in my life.”  She ignores the swirling thoughts in her head and speaks softly as she sets her tea cup down to peer at him intently.  “What sort of a mother would I be if I were to allow another’s son to suffer when I could help?”

 

She can tell he doesn’t know how to respond to that and she doesn’t mind.  She didn’t say it to start up a debate on parenting. She’s not entirely certain why she said it herself.

 

“Thanks.”  He says finally as he runs a finger along the rim of his empty tea cup.  “No one has really ever done that for me before.”

 

She interprets the meaning of _that_ as being about helping through his suffering, and sh can already see just how damaged this poor boy is, even before his rather telling way of expressing his appreciation.  No matter what her son’s words may say, Narcissa knows that in his heart and soul, Draco would appreciate if she helped Harry in his very obvious time of need. It is clear to her, and has been since that fateful day in Madam Malkins, that her son is obsessed with the Golden Boy of Gryffindor and she will do anything for Draco’s happiness.

 

And so, she does something that surprises even herself.

 

“Would you care to join me again next Saturday for tea?”  As soon as the words leave her mouth, she is expecting him to decline in some fashion and she expects to feel relief when he does so.  He surprises her with a small smile, and a promise that he will be there Saturday at half-three and the relief she had expected to feel upon a decline nearly overwhelmed her with his acceptance.   

 

As she watches him leave, she observes that the hunched shoulders that had entered the manor are a tad more relaxed and wondered at the delight she felt at helping ease the young man’s worries, even just a small amount.

 

“Mother, what on earth did Potter want?”  Draco stands at the top of the stairs sounding more alive than he has in years, and she marvels at the affect Mr. Potter’s presence has on her son even now.  

 

She decides to answer honestly.  “To thank me.”

 

She wants to snort at the narrow eyed confusion on his face.  “But why then did you…” His voice trails off and she can see his hands clenching and relaxing in his attempt to find the words.

 

“Invite him back?”  Her smile is soft at his brisk nod.  He’s so defiant, yet so timid at the same time, and she wonders when that combination came back.  “Because I needed to. And because he needed me to. And, because _you_ need me to.”

 

She knows he doesn’t understand what she means.  Not yet, anyway. He accepts her embrace anyway as she passes him on her way to the sunroom by returning the hug warmly.  She has some thinking to do.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 1

~~*~*~~


	2. Thursday, 12 June

#  Thursday, 12 June

##  Harry

~~*~*~~

 

He can’t get the oddness of the visit with Narcissa Malfoy out of his head.  If he’s to be completely honest with himself, he’s still not sure why he even went to the Manor to begin with.  He hasn’t a single positive memory about the place or regarding its inhabitants and it is a debate he’s been holding in his head since Saturday when he left the manor. 

 

He is penning an owl to Hermione and Ron while he’s pondering why Narcissa Malfoy had directed such a soft look at him.  She had always appeared to be as icy cold as her husband and as cruel as her son.

 

He is disillusioning himself in order to do some shopping at Diagon while he’s thinking about how easily she just believed that what he was saying is worth listening to when no other adult really has before.  He had Remus and Sirius for a time, but even they tended to downplay his concerns or would turn around to tell the Order his problems.

 

He is playing with Teddy and the boy flashes blonde when Harry tells the little werewolf child that his cousin Narcissa is a very complicated individual and she makes no sense to him at all whatsoever.  He ignores Andromeda’s derisive snort. She has every right to, of course, but Harry is finding that oftentimes who you see is not who they truly are. He thinks of Dumbledore and the book about his life that came out, and the talks he had with various elders who had known Dumbledore for decades.

 

He is still trying to rearrange all the new facts along side the facts he knew while the man was alive.

 

He is now sitting in his freshly remodeled kitchen sitting at the large sleek center island with its neat row of leather covered stools.  He fiddles with his coffee mug as he ponders last Saturday yet again.

 

It was a bizarre experience, one he had apparently signed on to do again this coming Saturday.  

 

He wonders if he’ll see Malfoy.

 

He wonders if he wants to see Malfoy. 

 

If Narcissa isn’t what she appeared to be on the surface, could Malfoy be the same way?

 

Should he even care about this?  He knows Hermione and Ron would both smack him upside the head were they here or inside his head.

 

But...they aren’t here to stop him.

 

And Harry is curious.

 

So very curious.

 

He takes a timid sip to test the temperature of his tea before taking a small draw and thinking about the weeks just after the battle.  

 

The entire first week he had been there was spent sobbing curled up on Sirius’ bed whilst Kreature hovered around anxiously.

 

The moment he came out of what he felt was a well deserved pity party, he directed Kreature to take everything from the attic and to move it to an empty bedroom and to clean the attic up.  When the elf had asked why, Harry had tried to smile and settled for a quirk of his cheek and a shrug of his shoulder as he explained his idea - the attic was going to be Kreature’s sanctuary.  Anything Harry wanted to get rid of that the elf wanted to keep would go in the attic for Kreature to memorialize. The elf went wide eyed and had fallen at Harry’s feet weeping with gratitude.

 

Later, he had stood in the study thinking about how he would remodel it with that ridiculous tapestry in the sitting room hung there taunting Harry with the burned scorch marks and he had suddenly felt the urge to talk with Narcissa Malfoy.  He could have gone to Andromeda, probably should have, but he had been fixated on Narcissa Black Malfoy’s name and had made his decision almost without thinking.

 

He had envisioned the gate that had loomed over them menacingly and twisted on his heel almost before he had even finished reading her name on the tapestry.

 

And then he had agreed to return the next Saturday.

 

He had spent Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday overthinking everything and then woke up on Wednesday with the urge to start his remodeling.  He had decided that he could overthink while being productive at the same time. 

 

The kitchen had been the first room Harry was insistent on remodeling, and Kreature was surprisingly helpful in that regard.  Between the pair, the house’s magic was manipulated to accept muggle appliances and it took the better part of yesterday to have the kitchen completed.

 

Sitting now at his new island, he smiles as he sips at his coffee and surveys the room.

 

The entire room is surrounded with charmed windows to let in natural light as the kitchen and large seating island are located in the basement.  He also write a letter to arrange the moving of the floo from the kitchen up to the large ground floor room where the order had met, leaving the long table and chairs sitting there until he decided what exactly to use the room for. 

 

Perhaps he can run a school out of Number 12 after his last year.  He has enough empty bedrooms to have specialized study rooms and entertains no plans to fill them with a wife and kids just yet.  

 

Or ever.  He just knows that he will make a terrible father.  Just look at his role models.

 

He takes a long drink out of his coffee cup.  The coffee leaves a warm trail running down through his throat, warming his oddly chilled body slowly.  He wonders if he has the energy to scramble some eggs when Kreature pops in and shoots him a dirty look. 

 

“If Master is wanting scrambled eggs, Kreature is making them.”  The grizzled old elf says reproachfully and Harry just sighs and waves towards the stove, ignoring how the elf knows exactly what it is he wants to eat this morning. 

 

“If you think you can work the muggle technology, be my guest.”  Harry mumbles around the lip of the cup, and the elf actually snorts in amusement and he scowls at the impertinent thing.  

 

He misses Molly and the Burrow.  He wonders how they are coping with Fred’s death.  He’s reached out, he’s tried a couple of times, but the replies have all been along the lines of ‘we love you but please leave us in our grief.’  He knows Molly is just angry that he hadn’t tried harder to keep Ron and Hermione from leaving right away to Australia, but they are of age and there was nothing Harry could have said that would have kept them there.  It hurts a little, or rather a lot, that she is doing this yet again, but he can understand her being upset, so he pushes aside the feeling of betrayal for the moment. 

 

If by the time the 1st of September comes and none of them have reached out, then he will know for certain.  He doesn’t like to think about a time when Molly finally decides that Harry really is too much of a hassle, too much of a bother, too much of a freak.  But if there is one thing life has taught him is that no one sticks around forever. Everyone has a limit.

 

A gravely chuckle from the elf brings his focus back to the present.

 

“Master should have more faith in Kreature.”  The cheeky elf sounds greatly amused, and Harry mutters unitellibally as he sets to preparing some breakfast for his new master and the wizard summons a muggle spiral bound notebook and mechanical pencil from his bedroom to start his sketches for what he wants to turn the first floor sitting room into.  

 

He loves the dark wood beams that make up the framework of the interior of Grimmauld.  He wants to remove the hideous forest green and gold patterned wallpaper in the sitting room and paint the wall a creamy white.  He can modernize the chandeliers by adding round glass lampshades and keep the candles rather than change them all to electric. Magic makes it easy enough to light them and change when they burn down completely.  

 

Harry sketches out a plan to build the wall up so the fireplace rests flush with the wall instead of having the brick exposed, and inside the recesses left on either side he draws in a couple of bushy looking plants.  He’s always wanted to be surrounded by light colors and lots of green plants, and now that he has his own place to remodel, he is doing just that. 

 

The furniture is all going to go, he doesn’t care how old and antique and priceless the pieces are.  They will sit in the Black vault where they belong and he is going to muggle London and purchasing expensive, comfortable living room furniture and an extremely large grey and white mosaic rug that will cover most of the cold hardwood.  He sketches in a couple of end tables between angled couches and chairs, and adds a large square coffee table as an afterthought.

 

Kreature slides a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit and Harry grins his thanks.  “What do you think?” He asks as he hands Kreature the notebook and scoops some egg on a bite of toast.  

 

The elf scans the page and shrugs.  “Kreature thinks Master Harry is a terrible artist.”

 

Harry has to refrain from strangling the pedantic elf.  “About the room design, Kreature.”

 

The old elf smirks.  “Perhaps Master Harry should have specified then.  The sitting room will look fine when Master Harry is done.  What will Master do with the tapestry?”

 

He eyes Kreature with a thoughtful look.  “Could house elf magic restore it?” He really would hate for such a priceless artifact remain in its current state, especially since he wants to leave it hanging in the sitting room.

 

“Of course, Master.”  The elf snorts and then smiles a toothy grin.  “Does Master Harry want to remodel the sitting room today?”

 

“Yeah, actually.  That sounds great.”  Harry nods, not for the first time extremely appreciative of how perceptive Kreature tends to be.  He’s already eaten half of his eggs, absently curious of the reason behind why he’s unusually hungry this morning.  “I’m thinking of asking Luna if she could paint something for the room. Or perhaps find something in London’s art district.”  He muses, thinking of the soon to be blank walls that will need decoration.

 

“Kreature can arrange a custom painting.”  The elf says from his perch at the other end of the island, his floppy wrinkly head propped on his hand as he stares at Harry with unblinking eyes.  

 

It is an attractive proposal.  “How would that work?”

 

The elf shrugs and traces an invisible pattern with a long fingernail on the counter top.  “The artist would meet with Master Harry and work with Master to decide what Master wants.”

 

“I imagine it is expensive.”  The only reply from the elf is a derisive look and he snorts at it.  “Locate both magical and muggle artists who create calming and unique pieces.  See if you can’t bring me a sheet with samples of their work, along with addresses of a physical studio.”

 

“As Master commands.”  With cheeky grin and a snap, the elf vanishes and Harry washes his now empty plate with a little grin quirking his lips as he plans which shops he will go to first in order to furnish the soon to be empty room.   
  


And Saturday, he will once again have tea with Narcissa Malfoy because he is itching with curiosity about what appears to him to be a complete personality change.

 

He’s never been very good at ignoring something that piqued his interest.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 2

~~*~*~~


	3. Chapter 3

#  Saturday, 14 June

##  Narcissa

~~*~*~~

 

Narcissa sets the outside tea table herself in an effort to ease her unexpected nerves.  She is rather discomfited to realize that some of these nerves stem from a fear that he will decide not to show up, that he will remember that she’s a death eater’s wife who doesn’t deserve his kindness.

 

She casts a soft tempus and wrinkles her nose in irritation.  9:30 am. Only six and a half hours until she knows if Mr. Potter will show or not.   She can’t find it in herself to be irritated at the worry she feels. That would take energy she wants to conserve for a potentially emotionally trying day.  She would rather not somehow put herself out of commission in case Draco needs her. He has never been very good at hiding his emotions, and currently she can see just how much he is struggling adjusting to life after the Dark Lord’s take over of the Manor and their lives. 

 

“Mother.”  She looks up from where she’s smoothing out the delicate lace tablecloth to see her son smiling his soft half smile at her and her heart warms.  He looks happier than he has in a while, and this is good. She wonders how long his pleasant mood will last this time. 

 

She moves quickly and smoothly over to press a kiss to his forehead like she did when he was still small.  “Draco.” She murmurs. “How are you this morning?”

 

He inclines his head and keeps it facing the floor for a long moment.  “Managing.” He says finally and the warmth in her heart threatens to ice over in fear again. 

 

She wonders what she can do with him that would help him.  

 

“Would you like to help me bake some scones?”  She asks softly, hopefully, and he looks at her in wide eyed surprise.  She knows why he’s so shocked at the offer. It has been years since Lucius allowed her to offer and she can now admit to herself that she has missed those days with her little boy in the kitchen.  “I was thinking of black currant scones we can have with orange marmalade.”

 

“My favorite.”  Draco breathes, and then flushes and she forces the gentle smile to remain unchanging on her face.  “Of course. I would love to bake with you.” His smile is almost shy and boy-like, and the warmth blooms in full once again as they make their way down to the kitchens arm in arm. 

 

~~*~*~~

 

“Sirius was your cousin, wasn’t he?”  Harry asks, though it’s said more as a statement rather than a question, and she nods silently in response.  He nods back, almost as if simply confirming something to himself. 

 

When Tibby had announced the arrival of the young man, she had nearly sagged in relief.  Her strong reaction should be alarming, but she has been finding herself caring less about what Lucius and her mother demanded of her and more about about moving forward with her life and learning to acknowledge her feelings.  And what she feels now is a strange sort of protectiveness over the young, hurting man who sits at her outside tea table drinking a hibiscus herbal with the fresh currant scones.  

 

“When we were young, before Hogwarts, our families met often enough he was more a sibling.”  She elaborates quietly, unable to keep the fondness she still feels towards her wayward cousin.  She regrets that he had died at the hand of her sister, his own cousin. “He was quite the little prankster, even as a very small boy.”

 

Harry’s grin is small and wistful.  “And I bet Walburga just hated that.”  The gleam in his eyes tells her that the idea tickles him.

 

Narcissa surprises herself when she laughs at the rather flippant comment.  “I daresay my dear Aunt would have had a litter of kneazles every time he did something, no matter how small the infraction.  It really was no surprise when he was sorted to Gryffindor, no matter what Aunt Walburga always said.”

 

She wonders if she should adapt to feeling constantly surprised around this boy when he continues to ask questions about her family, including what she can remember about Andromeda and if she knows any stories about her estranged niece, Nymphadora.  She hates the shame she feels when she has to tell him that no, she does not know anything about Nymphadora Tonks other than that she had inherited the Black metamorphmagus genes. 

 

Then he asks why she knows the bare minimum about members of her own family and the shame only deepens.

 

She silently wonders why exactly he wants to know about the Blacks, and why he isn’t just talking to her sister about them.  Perhaps Andromeda refuses to answer his questions? It would make sense, her husband and daughter were both killed during the war and no one would question her if she never spoke on her family again.

 

She finally tells him a short version of the truth.  “I am assuming since you knew my aunt’s name that you have been to Number 12 and seen the portrait that resides there.”  Harry nods with a grimace and she fights back a grin. The woman is almost more insufferable as a painting than she was as a human.  

 

Narcissa is still trying to remove the portrait that resides in one of the currently unused drawing rooms, which is unfortunate as it is the most comfortable and the largest of the drawing rooms and the one Narcissa wished she could use on a daily basis.  

 

“I had Kreature move the portrait to a different room.  He just snapped his fingers and the permanent sticking charm dissolved and now she lives in the attic with the rest of his treasures and I don’t have to listen to her scream obscenities every time I come home.”  Harry sounds entirely too smug and she wonders if any house elf would work of if she would need the Black elf specifically. Something to test on a later date.

 

"Well then you have seen the Black Family Tapestry."  She sees in his eyes when he realizes, and she hates herself just a little bit more for not fighting more for her sister, for not being there for her.

 

They fall silent for a bit, nibbling in silence and enjoying the sounds of the warm spring days.  Summer is right around the corner, and Narcissa is struck with just how neglected her beautiful garden is and suddenly feels an urge to remedy this now.  She files the feeling behind the need to concentrate on the tea with Harry, unwilling to be rude in the presence of any company, especially one who has no obligation to take tea with her at all.

 

When the silence is broken, it’s with Harry timidly asking if he may come again, and Narcissa simply quirks an eyebrow.  “Every Saturday for tea if you'd like, Mr. Potter, until you decide otherwise.” She replies with a small, but warmly genuine smile. 

 

He smiles in return and insists she calls him Harry and she lets a small nod escape but does not reply.  Perhaps the next tea, after she’s had a chance to emotionally dissect this tea, and provided he returns, she will.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 3

~~*~*~~


	4. Thursday, 19 June

# Thursday, 19 June

## Harry

~~*~*~~

 

Harry has gotten very good at pretending he isn’t full of self-deprecation and severe anxiety.

 

Currently on his mind, why the fuck had he asked to return for tea with Mrs. Malfoy?

 

Answer?  He has no bloody clue.

 

Why had he asked her to call him Harry?

 

He has no bloody clue on that either.

 

All he knows is that his curiosity towards her is far from satiated and he is apparently a giant idiot whose subconscious just happens to be the voice of the smartest muggleborn he knows.

 

A whirring of wings has him instantly distracted and his eyes widen at the size of the packet the international albatross is carrying.

 

Harry suppresses a groan when he realizes thick packet the international mail bird drops off at his breakfast table is from Australia.  Instead, he just smiles at the predictable nature of his best friends when the paper everything is wrapped in finally falls away and reveals the stack of parchment, photographs, and postcards.

 

Hermione has sent him what he is convinced is just her duplicated journal pages from the previous week with a letter addressing him directly on top and Ron a postcard a day with a different random Australian animal on the front of each one and a brief synopsis of what story Ron had for each one.  They are all animals he encountered that day, and Hermione thinks the idea rather splendid, so Ron continues to send them. Harry is just grateful his friends haven’t completely forgotten all about him.

 

On top of the stack of postcards is a picture of a row of flying foxes dangling from a twisty tree branch and Harry flips the card to read the back.  He snorts and then his eyes widen in alarm. _Hey, mate, did you know anacondas will eat these cute little buggers?  We were walking along a bike path and this fucker just lunged and ate the baby.  In front of me._

 

Harry winces a little at the memories of the visions of Nagini doing the same with her prey, only human, and it takes a great bit of effort to move on and leave the dark memory behind.

 

The second card is a picture of a massive anaconda draped over a branch.  The patterns of the snake on the postcard are bright and beautiful, but now Harry is worried what horrible story will come with this card.   _Mate, we were in the shops, and this fucking anaconda was slithering along with its head up like it was browsing through the clothes.  It was hilarious and no one even batted an eye._

 

He’s still laughing at the image the words invoke when he flips the third card with a picture of a dingo.   _It ate a shark, Harry.  We were just strolling along the beach, came around a corner, and bam.  Dingo. And a shark head. He actually had his head inside the shark head when I first saw it, and I nearly missed a photo.  I’ll make sure ‘Mione sends it with her letter._

 

Ron’s life sounds far more interesting than his own right now.  He plans on saving each one of these cards in a book so he can read them again and again.  Maybe he can create a photo album of his years at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione like the one he has of his parents.

 

He _really_ misses his friends.

 

The fourth postcard has a shark fin and then shares a story he had seen on the telly about a shark swimming around the golf course.  A crocodile card is accompanied by a tale of watching one ride the surf for about an hour before lumbering away. The sixth photo is a giant massive earthworm being held in a man’s hand, and Harry wants to vomit at the strings of mucus dripping from the worm.  He flips the card and reads, _Mate, I held one.  So cool._  That is all Ron says about it, and Harry just can’t imagine Ron had been actually willing to touch that horrific thing over a snake.  

 

He has always known that his best mate is completely bonkers.

 

The last postcard is a kangaroo with obviously digitally drawn sunglasses.   _Mate, there was this kangaroo eating a burger with his hands like people.  I think ‘Mione might send you the photo she took of it._

 

He looks back at the thick stack of paper from Hermione and sighs, steeling himself to tackle his best friend’s enthusiastic and verbose writing as he starts on his morning coffee and scrambled eggs.

 

~~*~*~~

 

He’s not sure why it took until today for him to finally listen to Kreature and start working on the master bedroom, but now that he’s done and standing in the middle of the finished space, he’s very glad he did so.

 

After breakfast, Kreature had been so insistent on showing him something that he had been practically shoved up the stairs.  The big surprise was that Kreature had completely cleaned and restored the room from the damage inflicted from Buckbeak and Sirius.  Harry had expressed the appropriate amount of awe and gratefulness at the cleanliness and thoughtfulness and then was immediately whisked away to shop for bedroom furniture with a half crazed house elf.

 

In the end, he had chosen a set of sleek black bed frame with matching grey and black wardrobe and side tables.  He had also managed to convince Kreature that putting in an electric fireplace was beneficial to both of them, and had chosen a mostly glass panel with lava rock on the bottom.  It was simple, elegant and would be completely perfect in the new bedroom.

 

Over dinner, as he had scarfed down a larger plate than he can ever remember eating in one sitting, Harry had reviewed his plans to rip out the bathroom and tiny ass bedroom next to his second floor bedroom and create a magnificent bathroom and walk in closet and move the doors so that the bathroom is only accessible through his room.  He had made the mistake of wondering out loud if Kreature was sure he could do it. Kreature had scoffed derisively at the idea that there was something his house elf magic could not overcome, and Harry had dissolved into amused and tired giggles.

 

Kreature hadn’t even paused as he dissolved the plaster and rearranged beams to create exactly what Harry had described.

 

He scans the room again and grins to himself.

 

The wall behind where his new, low bed sits is lined with long textured tile-like grey stone of varying shades, widths, and lengths.  He has been assured that his new mattress has all the latest charms for adjusting to all levels of comfort, and had been convinced by Kreature to pay a little extra for some additional safety charms that would protect from sleep activated curses, potions, charms, and the like.  He shudders still when he thinks that attacks such as those are even possible.

 

The tiny windowed wall facing the back garden has been replaced with floor to ceiling windows with thick drapes that tug almost flush to either side of the window.  A couple of round, low wide arm chairs sit in front of a fire, and can easily be rotated to enjoy the view outside. The soft brown wood of the floors is nearly completely covered by a creamy rug that is the same ivory of the curtains.  Instead of table lamps cluttering the space on his end tables - there are two in the hopes that someday he won’t be alone - he has installed low hanging lamps with a twisty sort of elongated mesh shade that is sleek and modern and he adores it.

 

Noxing the lights, he slides into the soft bedding, relishing the silence.  There is no one around to scream that he’s tainting the good stuff, no one snoring nearby, no one talking when he needs silence.  He allows his head to sink into the plush pillow and he huffs out a contented sigh at the softness he’s being surrounded by.

 

He’s nearly asleep when the dull thud of a bird hitting his window has him sitting straight up, gasping and wide eyed.  A cooing sound relaxes his shoulders and he nearly laughs at the amusing vision Pig makes, ruffled and indigent at his less than elegant landing.  

 

“You missed the opening by an inch, based on the imprint your body made on my window you daft creature.”  He says tiredly, and reaches his hand out the propped open window to pull the ridiculous bird inside. “What news do you have for me?  Good or bad? Mediocre?”

 

The bird chirrups and settles himself on Harry’s lamp without relinquishing the letter, tucking his head under his wing, and promptly falling asleep.

 

“I have a perch you know.  Has a water tray and everything.”  Harry says irritably, but the owl doesn’t move and he sighs before removing the small roll of parchment Pig is still gripping.  Molly’s scribbly, loopy scrawl spells out his name and his heart leaps.

 

This letter could go many directions, and he is suddenly terrified what the woman he’s always felt as close to he could have to a mother has to say to him.

 

Is she going to blame him for Fred’s death?  His anxiety says yes, but logic wins out. Were she angry with him, the scroll would be in a red envelope and smoke would preclude the angry voice bursting from the howler.

 

He supposes it’s like a bandaid and he should just rip it off.  Or in this case, read the letter.

 

 _Dearest Harry,_ the letter begins, and Harry can’t stop the moisture from welling in his eyes.  Anything that followed such a greeting would be easy to take because he knows that he is still dear to her.

 

_I realized today that it has been nearly a month and a half since I last spoke to you and I was horrified.  I’ve been too lost in my grief to truly notice the time passing, and for that I am so sorry._

 

Sorry!  She’s _sorry_ for grieving!  Harry can’t believe the woman and shakes his head in exasperated fondness.  He will be correcting her assumption that she should apologize to him for how she grieves.  He is 17, not an idiot. He only wishes someone had been as understanding at giving him what he needed whilst he was grieving Sirius.

 

_I know it seemed I was angry at you for Ron and Hermione’s decision, but I was not.  Not at you. I was angry that they hadn’t even given it a week before flying down to Australia for what I felt was a holiday away from the troubles here.  I’m afraid my grief made me less than sympathetic to Hermione’s own pain and I took it all out on you by shoving you aside and hiding away._

 

He still can’t find it in himself to ever put the blame on her.  She lost a child that day. It is only natural she would want her remaining children nearby.  However, he also knows how difficult of a decision it was for both of his two best friends, but Hermione couldn’t bear to wait another day and Ron had promised to never leave her side again.

 

And so they both had left, and Harry had taken the brunt of the aftermath.  He shrugs off the weighty feeling of irritation and turns back to the letter.  It’s in the past, and he doesn’t need to think about it.

 

_I’m making a roast Sunday.  I know it doesn’t make up for the last month and few weeks, but I would love it if you would join us for lunch._

 

_I love you, Harry.  If you cannot make Sunday, owl me a time we can talk.  You deserve to grieve, as well, and you should do so amongst people who love you._

 

_Molly_

 

He lays the letter on the side table with the intent of owling her first thing in the morning accepting the invitation to Sunday lunch, though perhaps he needs to correct her assumption he needs others around him to grieve.  He’s not really had that sort of comfort before and by this point, being surrounded by it all would probably send him into a panic rather than soothe the hurts.

 

Settling back on his pillow, he smiles before moving around until he’s curled under the blankets with his face nearly buried in his pillow.  For the first time in years, he is able to fall asleep easily.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 4

~~*~*~~


	5. Saturday 21 June

# Saturday, 21 June

## Narcissa

~~*~*~~

It’s raining in sheets today, so she has Tibby set everything up in the sunroom.  It is her current favorite room in the manor, with the long clear windows and an innumerable amount of plants seated in pottery and, more importantly, a significant lack of Walburga Black whom she still has had no luck removing from the permanent place in their library.

 

She trails light fingers along the window as she stares at the rain.  It is already nearing the 2 o’clock hour and Draco still has yet to emerge from his room.  The elf she sends to check on him tells her that he is awake, and seated on his window bench staring out at the rain and she is thankful that at least her son is out of bed.

 

It also tells her that he is once again feeling low and depressed and wonders if the rain has triggered him.  He had been playful and inquisitive yesterday during their latest of their increasingly more frequent baking sessions and she hopes deep in her heart that the progress her son has made isn’t erased by this latest depressive episode.

 

Perhaps she should check on him herself.

 

When she knocks on Draco’s door, she is relieved to hear his voice softly implore her to enter and so she does.  True to the elf’s word, he is seated at the window still in his pyjamas with his knees drawn up to his chest and fingers fiddling with his shirt sleeve.  When he sees her, he gives her a weak smile.

 

“There was some bird poop on my window earlier.  The rain washed it off.” He says and an eyebrow arches at the abrupt way her son speaks his mind.  Depression or not, some things never change when it comes to Draco. She waits patiently for him to finish his thought.  He doesn’t disappoint. “I wish something worked like that for personal mistakes.”

 

She realizes he’s been picking at the sleeve over his left arm and her heart aches for him.  He made a choice, an awful choice between horrible options where neither would have ended well for him.  “Which mistakes would you want washed away, Draco?” She’s not sure if she’s prepared to hear whatever it is he has to say but she’s asked and she’s going to wait for the answer.

 

He’s silent for a long time, long enough she wonders if she should repeat the question, but she does not.  It is completely up to him to answer.

 

“I think just one.”  He replies finally, turning his head away from the window to smile a sad little smile at her.  “Because if I could change the way I met him, maybe the worst of my mistakes would not have happened.”

 

~~*~*~~

 

Harry shows the appropriate amount of awe she feels is necessary for proper enjoyment of the sunroom and she allows a small, yet delighted smile to emerge.

 

The small talk flows easier than it had the previous Saturday, and it doesn’t take long for the boy to relax in his chair.  She feels something tight around her heart loosen at the sight, and realizes her own anxiety is ramped because he was feeling anxious.

 

Today’s tea is an earthy yerba mate that tastes fresh and bright and almost like hope.  She’s not sure how the taste of a tea can invoke that feeling, but there it is.

 

Of course, it could also be tied to the fact that the young man in front of her is welling up her motherly instincts in a way that Draco hasn’t done in years.  Something very broken, far more so than Draco’s still healing soul, resides inside Harry, and she’s suddenly determined to dig it out and expose it so she can help him in balming it for good.  

 

She has no idea where this protectiveness is coming from.

 

She can’t resist a playful jab when he mentions something about those blasted Chudley Cannons.  “Mr. Potter, you dare mention such a shameful team in _my_ house?”

 

Luckily, he laughs instead of becoming offended and she relaxes minutely, wondering when she had once again tensed up enough to notice and refusing to admit to herself _why_ she worries about offending the boy. “I only care because my best friend does.”

 

She shakes her head.  That is a terrible reason to support a Quidditch team due to the incredible history each of the teams has and she tells him as such much to his obvious amusement.  “I suggest you read the Quidditch Throughout the Ages book and decide on a team for your own.” She finishes airily, and watches for his response.

 

A thoughtful look crosses his face.  “That’s not a bad idea. I think this is the first summer I’ve ever had where I can actually do what I want to do, so I’ll probably have time. I’m almost done remodeling Grimmauld, anyway, so I’ll need something else to do soon.”  She watches as the thoughtfulness turned to awe and wonder and felt a twinge of horrific suspicion that she knows why he’s so delighted at the very prospect.

 

Everyone knows by now that he had grown up with muggles and she has always been very good at reading people.  Based on the few teas and conversations she has shared with Harry so far, she’s been filing away bits of information that are all pointing to the same conclusion, one she doesn’t want to put a name to until he’s verbally confirmed it.  And it is not proper to just ask if one had been abused by muggles as a child.

 

As it turns out, however, she doesn’t have to ask him anything.  He’s halfway through his tea and playing with the scone on his plate when his tone changes rather drastically from the playful sort of joviality to a rather somber seriousness that seems almost out of place on the young face.

 

Whatever he is thinking of must be something rather traumatic as pain is written all over his face and nearly radiating from his eyes.  She watches as the emotions play out and resists the urge to reach out and comfort him. It is not her place. She’s still not prepared for what he finally tells her when he starts to speak.

 

He’s blunt, unafraid to share his mind, and she finds that it rather suits him even if she’s not sure why he’s sharing what he is with her.  

 

“I lived in the cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven and I received my first Hogwarts letter.”  

 

As quiet as his voice was, she hears every syllable and her heart sinks a little when she hears the word ‘first’.  It doesn’t bode well for the rest of the tale.

 

The next hour is filled with him talking about how his aunt and uncle raised him, how they had treated him no better than a house-elf.  How they withheld not only their love, but even basic necessities such as a bed, food, clothing, and some days even shelter and she can feel her hate for muggles grow.

 

He speaks about how if anything that was what deemed freaky, or magic as he now knows, happened around both them and other people, he would be locked away as to not contaminate their normal family and she can feel her desire for these particular muggles to die the most painful of deaths.

 

He adds at the end that he learned very quickly to never ask questions, especially about his own family, and that will occasionally lead to some very awkward conversations at times as he still knows next to nothing about either side of his family and Narcissa is nearly overcome with emotion.

 

She fights to hold the tears that threaten to form at the thought of this boy having spent so much of his life unloved and unwanted and still he manages to find the compassion to care more about others than his own self.  He comes to tea with _her_ , in her _manor_ , where he and his friends were _tortured_ by her own family.

 

It still boggles her mind he’s even willing to look at her, let alone have tea with her in her home and share such personal struggles.

 

And for one to not know of their family history, to be denied their birthright and their heritage, is shameful and her heart hurts for him.  She has to reign in her immediate desire for revenge and the spilling of muggle blood, but she knows that their deaths would hurt Harry. She knows that his compassion would attempt to protect even those muggles.

 

Surely not all muggles are like that.  But nearly all the ones she has heard about certainly are, including these Dursley’s, so she’s not sure which is the norm amongst muggles.  All of her own evidence points to the notion that muggles are evil, muggles hate things they don’t understand, and muggles will kill what they feel will corrupt.

 

How is that different than wizards?

 

She mentally shoves the thought away for further analysis later.  After the disaster her life has been over the last 40 years, she wants a chance to process her beliefs for herself for once.  “I can’t imagine any true mother turning you aside.” She says to Harry finally in response, and she knows she said the right thing when he gives her a smile that is brighter than the sun.  

 

“That’s exactly what Molly told me when she found out how Petunia talks to me.”  Harry’s mouth quirks at the corner and he nibbles at the orange marmalade slathered scone.  

 

She leans forward in her chair.  It is suddenly important to her that she prove to Harry that even though she and her family had treated him as abominably as his relatives in the past, she will never do so or allow it to be so again.  

 

“Harry, you are a delight to converse with.  I will never turn away your questions, in fact I welcome them.”  She wonders what she said wrong when he draws in a sharp, almost unheard breath and his eyes glisten with unshed tears.  

 

He just stares at her, unblinking, water in his eyes drying instead of falling.  “You know, I never realized.” He finally whispers, his voice trailing off and she can’t stop herself.

 

“Realized what?”

 

He startles, almost as if he forgot someone else was in the room with him, and then he flushes just slightly.  But he answers anyway, to her relief. She’s not sure she could handle it if he had decided not to share. “I never realized how few people use my first name, at least outside of...”  

 

He trails off and she allows it because yet again, he has given her an answer that is unexpected.  

 

She wonders if he notices or even cares that she has yet to extend the same offer to him in regards to using her name.  

 

She will.  

 

Just not yet.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 5

~~*~*~~


	6. Tuesday 24 June

#  Tuesday, 24 June

##  Harry

~~*~*~~

 

He hates house elves, sometimes. 

 

They may be dead useful most of the time, hell he would be tempted to say all the time were it not for  _ yet another _ plate of chocolate peanut biscuits with a veritable trough of tea popping up next to the still three unfinished plates and cups from the past three hours.  

 

“Kreature!”

 

Harry is starting to regret ever wishing he had grown up with house elves instead of being one himself.  Kreature has taken his role as Harry’s house elf very seriously and Harry is always surrounded by more tea and biscuits than any one boy or man could possibly hope to consume in one sitting. 

 

“Yes, Master Harry?” The grizzled old elf appears in front of him with a nearly silent pop and Harry fights the urge to jump out of his chair.  

 

“Stop sending me up biscuits!”  He gestured almost violently to the fourth plate of chocolate biscuits with crushed peanuts coating the tops of each biscuit.  “I don’t like biscuits  _ that _ much.”

 

Without a single word, the biscuits disappear and in its place pops an enormous blueberry muffin.  The thing is nearly the size of his head and he fixes the elf with his darkest glare. 

 

“Not what I meant and you know it.”

 

The obstinate house elf just sighs and tells him that Master Harry needs to put on more weight and if he could please eat least eat this blueberry muffin from the not-so-bad-for-a-blood-traitor Molly Weasley, he would appreciate it.  

 

The mention of Molly has him thinking briefly on the meal on Sunday.  His time at the Burrow had been far less awkward than he had feared it would be.  They laughed and joked, even if the pain still dulled their eyes and the laughter was a bit forced at times, and Harry left with more freshly baked goods than he could possibly eat before they went bad.

 

Eyes narrowing at the continued pushing for him to fatten up, as well as at the definitely lessened but still continued blood traitor comments, Harry eats the muffin in three massively enormous bites just to see the look of irritated disgust that flickers in the elf’s eyes.  At least the elf is making an attempt at civility with the Weasley’s now, which is a far cry from even the end of last summer when they were hiding in Grimmauld after Bill’s wedding. 

 

Harry is certain that Kreature had immediately changed his view on Harry when he had told Kreature he had succeeded in Master Regulus’ mission, and offered him the mangled locket as well as the fake copy.

 

Kreature had taken both, burst into tears, and immediately threw himself into being the very best house elf imaginable for The Great Master Harry Potter.  It had then taken Harry nearly two weeks to make Kreature shorten it to just Master Harry.

 

He wonders what Mrs. Malfoy would think of the bizarre relationship he and the elf have seemed to form.  Was how the elf overrides some of his decisions - such as how much he ate in a day - normal, or was Harry opening the door so to speak for a rebellious house elf that will turn on him at the opportune moment?

 

He makes a mental note to ask her about it on Saturday and side eyes the ancient elf.

 

Kreature is humming,  _ humming! _ , as he walks around the room levitating objects and vanishing the dust.  He carefully examines each trinket and object before very carefully removing the dust as if he were a muggle archaeologist uncovering a rare find.  Harry is befuddled, but admits that Kreature has done more for both the house and for Harry in the past two months than he ever did for Sirius in the two years he lived in Grimmauld before his death.  

 

_ I hope you’re okay with the fact that Kreature apparently worships me now instead of your mother and Regulus, Siri _ , he thinks with a bittersweet smile.  

 

His memories drift from Sirius to his childhood, and the vertible word vomit he had spewed forth on Narcissa Malfoy of all people. 

 

Narcissa.

 

Bloody.

 

Malfoy.

 

He told his  _ childhood _ to Narcissa Malfoy. 

 

He hasn’t even told Ron and Hermione about his childhood.  All they know is what they’ve witnessed, deduced, or heard about, such as the car rescue and the cat flap and locks and old muggle soup tins.

 

He groans and buries his face in his hands.  When will he learn to think before he acts? Is he that desperate for a mother’s love that Molly is not enough to fill in for the role?  That he will allow himself to attach himself to  _ Narcissa Bloody Malfoy _ ?

 

Granted, the woman has been nothing but kind to him since she greeted him in her sunroom the first Saturday in June.  He wonders not for the first time if the Ice Queen he had met in Diagon Alley the summer before sixth year was a front she had been taught to display in public.  

 

What if that day, that horrible awful day when Hermione was tortured, the choices made were not in malice but due to an impossible situation where family came before anyone else?  He almost felt sick thinking it, almost as if he was thinking of excuses to justify behaviours, but now that the thought had made itself known, he can’t simply set it aside.

 

He himself broke into Gringotts and stole their fucking dragon and is still shocked the Goblins will have anything to do with him.  He cast unforgivables, he killed, he stole, he did what he needed to protect those he loved.

 

He frowns when a question passes through his mind.   _ What makes it so different, then?  Narcissa and my choices? What about the children of Death Eaters, like Draco and the choices  _ they _ made? _

 

He wonders what Hermione would do in his place or what she would tell him were he to actually approach her about this.

 

Not that he is going to, of course.

 

Because deep down, he’s certain he already knows what Hermione would tell him.

 

~~*~*~~

 

The elf busies himself with the housework in the afternoon while Harry takes Narcissa to heart and finds himself his own Quidditch team to support, starting with finding his Quidditch Through the Ages book and then the most comfortable seat in the sitting room before flipping to chapter 7. He’s read the book numerous times, but now he’s going to make lists whilst doing so and find the perfect team to support.

 

He drew two lines down his muggle lined paper with his muggle pen, immensely thankful he had them on hand, and then another line at the top of the page to create three columns. 

 

The first column was labeled as “team”, the second he labeled as “fact”, and the third he listed as “thoughts”.

 

_ I’m turning into you, Hermione _ . 

 

He misses his best friends.  

 

The Appleby Arrows, founded in 1612 in the northern part of England, is the first to make its way onto the paper, and the best thought he has for them is amusement in regards to the banning of their celebratory spell because a stray conjured arrow gave a referee an accidental nose piercing.  He is impressed at the 16 day match played in the fog and rain and is fairly certain he does not possess that kind of stamina, but even that fact isn’t enough to excite him about the team.

 

The Ballycastle Bats are the second best in the league, and he immediately scratches them out as a possibility when the book talks about that as well as a strange butterbeer wireless commercial he’s never heard or seen before are the only things the book says about them.   Not even a year of when the team was founded so he would have an idea of the potential richness of their history is available. 

 

Disappointed, he moves on to the Caerphilly Catapults and marvels at their founding over 200 years before the Appleby Arrows in 1402.  He nods at the healthy amount of wins and then his eyes widen when he reads about one of their players being eaten by a  _ sodding chimera _ while in Greece.  He makes a small check next to their name when he reads about Dangers Dai Commemorative Medal that is awarded to the player that performed the most foolhardy and exciting stunt during the season.  

 

By the time he’s done with his list, 4 teams have a check next to their name:  the Caerphilly Catapults for their chimera incident and subsequent Medal award, the Holyhead Harpies for their amazing seeker Glynis Griffiths, the Montrose Magpies for the same reason as the Harpies only for Eunice Murray, and the Tutshill Tornados for their fastest snitch catch during a game.  He’s not ashamed to admit that nearly all of his choices have to do with the fact the team has had an amazing seeker at some point, or that the team encourages their players to be as exciting as they can whilst playing.

 

He looks up at a clink to see yet another plate containing two chocolate peanut biscuits for his 3 o’clock tea, though this time a large chocolate chip muffin sat on the plate as well, and tea sitting next to him and he wordlessly screams his frustration at seeing yet  _ more  _ of those sodding biscuits.  

 

“If Master Harry does not want biscuits or muffins, then Master needs to tell Kreature what Master wants to eat.”  The elf scolds from where he stands in the doorway, scowling at the teen who scowls back.

 

“I want croissants.”  He says instantly, barely even needing time to think.  “I don’t care where you find them, as long as they are the best that can be found.  I don’t care how much they cost per roll, I don’t care if I have to travel to get to them if need be.  Just find me the best ones available.”

 

Kreature just shakes his head sadly and pops out without a word, only to return minutes later with a covered wicker picnic basket of fresh rolls.  “All Master needs to do is ask and Kreature will provide.”

 

“I don’t want  _ just _ croissants for tea.”  Harry is quick to clarify.  “But I definitely do not want another chocolate peanut biscuit.”   
  


“Of course, Master Harry.”

 

“And not just muffins, either.”  

 

“Of course, Master Harry.  Kreature is not stupid.” If an elf possesses the ability to be sarcastic to their master, Kreature certainly has the emotion down pat.

 

Harry huffs a sigh.  “I’m not sure anyone would ever think of you as stupid.  You’re probably the smartest house elf I’ve ever owned.”  _ Or met, for that matter _ .

 

“Seeing as Master Harry has only had Dobby and Kreature, Kreature is not surprised.”

 

“Dobby was not mine, he was free.  Also, he was not an idiot.”

 

“Kreature thinks it is a matter of opinion, Master Harry.”

 

And the elf sounds just like Hermione of all people and Harry just shakes his head and chuckles to himself as Kreature gives him a dirty look that tells Harry he knows what his master is thinking, and pops out of the room with a silent snap. 

 

House elves. 

 

He looks back down at the paper and frowns at the slip of parchment with quidditch teams listed and sighs.  Time to make his decision.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 6

~~*~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it all seems very bleak in terms of Drarry, but it is coming, don't you fret. Little hints up until chapter 11, which is when they first interact, and then chapter 13 on will feature Draco pretty frequently until the end. If I manage to finish every chapter before schedule, I'll probably post the chapters much quicker together. Thank you very much for reading!


	7. Saturday, 28 June

#  Saturday, 28 June

 

##  Narcissa

 

~~*~*~~   
  


When the Tibby brings Harry into the tea room, he simply says “The Harpies” instead of a true greeting, and she can’t stop the open, pleased smile that forms.  

 

“Admirable choice, Harry.”  She doesn’t comment on his lack of greeting, and he doesn’t offer any other one other than to jump into his explanations as to why he chose the all female team of the league and she covertly smiles at the obvious comfort the young man feels around her.

 

She wonders if he’s aware of it himself.

 

He is waxing poetic on young Ginevra ‘Ginny’ Weasley’s skill and her determination to make it in the world of professional quidditch, and that while he will support any team she is on, he knows she desperately wants to join the all-women team.  She has spent her life trying to prove that she is just as capable of great things as her brothers, and will push herself to the very limits of her abilities in an effort to make a name for herself. 

 

When he starts in on explaining how she would sneak out at midnight and break into the Weasley’s broom shed to practice flying at night, Narcissa silently wonders why the girl had not been a Slytherin.  Her ambition alone set her apart from her family, though she supposes the mere fact that all the Weasley’s have been Gryffindors since records had been kept had most definitely been a factor. 

 

“Ginevra certainly sounds like someone who has the ability to succeed where others before her have failed.”  Narcissa comments when Harry appears to reach the end to his long-winded speech. She has never been on what can even be called decent terms with any of the members of the Weasley clan, but with Lucius in Azkaban and her desire to keep Harry in her life, she resolves to attempt her hand at bridge building.

 

After all, the Malfoy name has already been tarnished enough through this awful business with the Dark Lord.  It could hardly fall any lower associating with heroic blood traitors.

 

Perhaps she will begin with reaching out to her sister.  Young Edward Lupin will need as much family around him as possible, especially with the demise of both his parents.  He is her nephew, grand-nephew were one to insist on proper terminology. And regardless of Bellatrix's feelings about the child, she is rather intrigued that a werewolf was able to procreate with a human.

 

It certainly dredged up questions against more of her longest held prejudices. 

 

Harry grins at the use of the youngest Weasley’s full name.  “Don’t call her Ginevra to her face. She’s wicked at her bat-boogie hex and not afraid to use it on  _ anyone _ .”

 

The warning is clear and obvious and Narcissa does not have to be a teenager to understand what the spell does.  She bites her lip to keep from laughing out loud. “I will have to ask her to teach it to me if we ever meet. I can think of a few members that run in my circle of friends that could benefit from being on the wrong end of that sort of hex when they run their mouth without thinking.”

 

She revels a moment in his stunned expression before taking pity and moving to a different topic.  “Did anything interesting happen to you this week?” She asks, hoping he hadn’t been involved in some traumatic or dramatic experience she had somehow missed.  

 

He perks up at the question.  “Actually, yeah. I have a question for you about house elves.”

 

Both eyebrows fly up at that.  “Oh?” She can’t think of why he needs advice on elves, but she will certainly do her best to answer them. 

 

“I’ve inherited Kreature from Sirius Black’s family.”  Sometimes, she very much appreciates the bluntness of Gryffindors.  It helps her to immediately knows where this is going: Kreature has been himself and decided to devote his entire existence into either loathing or serving the young man who has inherited him.  The way Harry’s face is contorting as he thinks of what to say next doesn’t give away any clues as to which way the question will go. She contents herself with the knowledge that he will spill soon enough, she simply needs to remain patient. 

 

He spills in what she is realizing his way to ask a question: providing the explanation or background before even asking what he wants to know.  She is certain it has to do with the muggles he was raised by. “He never liked me, or anyone that was ever at Grimmauld, at least not that I ever saw.  He hated Sirius, would only refer to us by our blood status, and would do the bare minimum the bond to the House of Black required of him.” He sounds tired, and she expects this.  Kreature always was a difficult elf, but once loyal, would be painfully devout until his dying breath.

 

She’s about to ask him if he needs advice on how to release an elf from service and ensure secrets are kept regardless when he gives a little chuckle.  

 

“Apparently, all anyone needed to do to garner his loyalty was complete Regulus’ self-imposed mission.  Had someone done that, Kreature would have jumped to do anything that person asked - with a lot of snark and sass as he does so.”  Harry’s tone is wry, and his eyes aren’t as troubled as she would have previously feared. 

 

And she’s definitely certain what his question is now.  

 

“And I assume you wish to know if this is normal behaviour of a house elf?”  She smiles at his nod. “Yes, though perhaps not with necessarily as much zeal as Kreature will demonstrate.  Would you care to explain some of what he is doing?”

 

Harry obliges, and spins stories on piles of uneaten chocolate biscuits and gallons of untouched tea and ignoring him when he demands the steady flow of food stop to three small meals a day.  And whenever the elf does chose to obey, the way Kreature follows his orders is with so much bantering and sarcasm it’s exhausting.

 

She can’t help herself.  She laughs loudly enough to startle him and herself.  “Kreature is Kreature. If he is overfeeding you and bantering along with arguing with you, that means he likes you and will be devout until his dying breath.”

 

“So, how he was about Regulus and Walburga Black?”

 

He is far more observant than Draco ever admitted to her.  Or perhaps her son had simply been in denial about the fact that the reasons  _ why _ Potter didn’t like him most likely had everything to do with how Draco acted towards him and treated him.  She would not be surprised were she to discover that Harry has no idea just how much of an influence he has been on Draco over the course of their lives and that Harry had been the primary motivation behind nearly all of her son’s decisions, nor will she be the one to tell him this.

 

She returns to the conversation with a small smile. “Apt observation.  Exactly so.”

 

“Great.”  His tone is drier than the desert and she snorts in amusement before nearly gasping in surprise at herself. 

 

How is it has she already come to feel so comfortable around this young man, so much so that she will  _ snort _ in his presence?  She rarely does so around Lucius, even.  She supposes it must be an aspect of Harry’s personality, a rare ability that exudes a sort of reassurance that is hard to resist.  Her personal, current level of comfort must be a side effect of simply being around him. 

 

She enjoys his company.

 

It’s been so long since she has fully enjoyed herself in the presence of another it’s a foreign feeling and it is one she is very rapidly beginning to relish in. 

 

In an effort to remove herself from her uncomfortable realizations, she asks “how are your friends in Australia?  Ron and Hermione, correct?” She is fairly certain she has their names correct, and if not will commit them to heart and mind because she truly enjoys his company and valuing the friends of a friend ensures continued mutual respect. 

 

Even if the girl is...muggleborn, she is very obviously an intelligent and talented witch and very much worthy of her magic.  Narcissa wonders how many more of her beliefs are going to be shaken apart now that she knows and adores Harry Potter.

 

He brightens and talks about how Hermione has found her parents and is now working with an expert from the Australian Ministry to see what can be done about their memory.  She is struck with just how brave the young woman has been to face the decision she had made to obliviate her parents head on and try everything she could to fix the decision.  She can only hope the girl will survive if she is told the effects are not reversible, and hopes for their sakes it can be done.

 

It is obvious Harry misses his friends immensely, and she feels a pang at the realization.  She shuffles through her memories in search of the few she has of the boy’s parents during their years at Hogwarts, mainly of Lily when she was still hanging around Severus Snape.  Even one story would provide a small distraction against loneliness.

 

“Did you know your mother was quite adept at charms?”  Of course he did, she would be very surprised if she were to discover Filius Flitwick  _ hadn’t _ told Harry.

 

He nods and she smiles.

 

“She invented the most wonderful charm that made its way around Hogwarts my seventh year.  It was a cosmetic charm that worked to cover blemishes.” She later had found out that Lily had created the charm to assist Severus in hiding the evidence in what the latest Potter and his cohorts had done to him.

 

She adds it to her mental list of things not to mention to Harry.

 

He is a captivated audience, and the rest of the tea passes with all the tiny stories she can dredge up and he leaves later that evening with a teary eyed hug and smile.  

 

Perhaps next week she’ll gather the courage to have him call her Narcissa.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 7

~~*~*~~


	8. Tuesday 1 July

#  Tuesday 1 July

 

##  Harry

 

~~*~*~~

 

_ Harry, _

 

_ I’m a little concerned about the contents of your last letter.  What on earth do you mean you are still meeting with Narcissa Malfoy?  I am flabbergasted. I’m still shocked you went the first time! I can hardly process what must be going through your mind!  _

 

_ You know what?  Never mind. I should know you well enough by now to trust you know what you are doing.  So despite my many misgivings, I will move on and spare you my rant. (I also could have simply started the letter over, but I hate wasting pre-cut sheets of parchment.  They’re so much more expensive.) _

 

_ Just...know that I am apprehensive.  And I’m sure you know this, and I also am sure you know I worry because you are my dearest friend and I can’t bear to see you hurt. _

 

_ Mum and Da are recovering nicely in the Canberra Hospital for Magical Maladies.  The healers think they will recover most if not all of their memories in time. Of course, they appreciate that I had copies of many of the erased memories we could use to help nudge them along.  Ron was surprised I had saved them, though I have no idea why. He has known me for seven years now.  _

 

Harry has to set the letter down and wipe his eyes after he finishes his laugh after reading the last couple of sentences.  Ron will never change.

 

_ We are aiming to be back by the first of August, though we will only guarantee that we will return by school.  Ron is pushing for August because he’s growing increasingly worried about George. _

 

All of the Weasley’s are becoming worried about George and Harry is, too.  He is spending more time in his room, blankets pulled over his head and it is getting harder to give him reasons he’ll accept to leave the bed.  Harry has already recommended his own mind healer to Molly, but at the time she just had just given him a sad smile and told him that George has to first want to go as he is an adult, that no one could force him but that she would try.

 

Harry continues to scan the letter that details all of their adventures thus far, people they have met and food they have eaten.  Sights they have seen and experiences they have lived and Harry feels jealous.

 

Oh, so strongly jealous. 

 

Sure, they are only in Australia because Hermione had sent her parents off after obliviating them sometime in the summer before sixth year.  Honestly, he and Ron should have known something was up long before the end of the war. No parent would allow their teenage daughter to stay away at some boy’s house all summer long, let alone a house full of them.

 

But they are able to use a lot of their time to explore the country and part of him wishes he had gone with them.

 

He sighs and re-reads the last paragraph of Hermione’s letter. 

 

_ I hope your visits with Narcissa are doing you well, just don’t expect me to visit the manor with you, please.  At least not right away. _

 

_ I hope you can find something you can feel passionate about once again.  Remember, Harry, you are not worthless now that Voldemort is gone. He was not your only purpose in life.  You are free to make your own path now. _

 

_ We love you,  _

 

_ Hermione and Ron _

 

His own path.  

 

It is a concept he has never before allowed himself to think about, not truly.  Sure, he had had aspirations as a fifth year at being an auror, but it was never anything more than something to be used to further his ability to serve his purpose.

 

He wonders if Dumbledore would have panicked had he been alive to see Harry return to life and if he would have killed him.  And then he wonders where on earth  _ that _ thought had come from.  Of course the headmaster wouldn’t have!  He had showed up to guide him back to life in the first place!

 

Rolling his eyes at himself, he swallows as he folds the letter and tucks it back in the envelope.  

 

Hermione is right.  It is time for him to get up off his arse and start living his best life.  

 

And he is going to start by shopping for new clothing in muggle London. 

 

Perhaps he will even go to a fancy sort of place.  

 

He’s almost surprised when he finds himself outside what appears to be a store catered to well dressed young men and with a sigh, takes the last few steps until he is inside the air conditioned building.

 

He is very nearly immediately overwhelmed.  

 

There are rows upon rows of various colors of various articles of clothing, and Harry can’t actually remember a time he has ever had to shop for clothing outside of Madam Malkins.  His aunt certainly never took him out if she could help it and because of this, Harry is feeling hopelessly lost.

 

Apparently, department store clerks are keyed in to find when a customer is so overwhelmed they need to be held by the hand.

 

“Good morning, Sir.”  A low honeyed greeting has him nearly jumping out of his skin.  He hates feeling so out of place. 

 

He can’t help the words that come out of his mouth.  “I’ve never been shopping for clothes before.” He flushes when he realizes what he’s just admitted out loud to an absolute stranger.

 

The clerk barely blinks at that.  “My name is Jeremy, and I’ll have you out of here in an hour with everything you need.”

 

~~*~*~~

 

True to his word, Harry had indeed walked out with clothing he never knew had various names such as trousers called Chinos, or shoes called Toms, and he feels far more prattish, yet admittedly more stylish, than he ever had felt before in his life.  

 

Now he is back home and sitting in the newly remodeled order room.  The table and chairs are now gone, and the walls have been lined with dark wood shelves.  He intends for this to one day be a massive library, but for now he has to settle for the books he has deemed acceptable for the time being from both the Black and the Potter vaults and libraries.  

 

He settles back in one of the deep seated armchairs that litter the room and looks proudly at the artfully displayed tomes and knows that as soon as Hermione sees the lack of books, she will have them filled by the time he turns twenty.  Kreature pops in with a bow and waits for Harry to look over at him.

 

“Does Master Harry wish for tea?”

 

It is the first time the elf has actually  _ asked _ Harry instead of simply dumping a serving on him.  Hoping he doesn’t sound as amused as he feels, he nods.  “Yes, please Kreature. Could I have a couple of cucumber sandwiches with my tea today?”

 

“Of course.”  Kreature bows lowly.  “Could Kreature tempt Master Harry with a raisin oatmeal biscuit?”

 

He scowls at the elf before deciding the argument wasn’t worth it, reminding himself that at least it was a different type of cookie, and then shakes his head fondly.  “Actually, yes. That sounds great. Just one, please.”

 

The elf pops out and Harry waits for his food before allowing himself to fall into his thoughts.  

 

Once his tea is settled on the side table and the plate of sandwiches resting on the arm of the chair - along with the lone oatmeal raisin biscuit, he allows the one thing that has been bothering him come to front.

 

Harry is fairly certain he had seen Draco Malfoy enter the same muggle department store an hour or so after Harry had left it.  He saw the other young man as he had been exiting a restaurant across the street from the store.

 

And now Harry can’t stop thinking about it. 

 

Did Draco realize he had gone into a muggle shop?

 

Had he gone in on purpose?  If he had, why?

 

Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen a single hide or hair of the other boy since the final battle.  In all the times he had been over to tea, he had yet to see his classmate inside his own manor.

 

Had Narcissa requested Draco to stay away whenever Harry was visiting?

 

Or had Draco decided to do so on his own accord?

 

And why the fuck does he  _ still give this much of a shit about Draco Malfoy _ ?

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 8

~~*~*~~


	9. Saturday, 5 July

#  Saturday, 5 July

##  Narcissa

~~*~*~~

 

She is reading her latest draft of a missive to Andromeda for the fifth time that afternoon while waiting for Harry to arrive.  She has composed at least 8 different letters, and this letter is the final draft and will be the one she will definitely send just as soon as she finds the courage to do so.

 

“Mother?”

 

She lifts her head to see Draco standing in the doorway, still in his sleep clothes and wrapped in a rather ghastly, grey wooly robe she can only assume came from an actual sheep.  Sometimes she did not understand what her son chose to wear. “Yes, darling?”

 

“Could we make lunch together today?”  He asks, almost timidly, and she immediately stands and steps away from the desk.  

 

Her owl, Athena, sat unblinkingly watching her and she sighs and holds out the letter.  “Take it you blasted bird, before I change my mind again.” The bird immediately snatches the letter and is out the window before either Malfoy can blink.

 

“Yes, Draco, I would love to make lunch with you.”  She says with a soft smile. “What is it you desire today?”

 

What is done is done.  The choice of what happens next now falls to her sister.

 

~~*~*~~

  
  
Today, Harry is dressed in new grey shoes that are made from what appears to be a sturdy fabric of some sort, black slim cut trousers Draco himself owns and has informed her are called chinos, and a green button down instead of his threadbare trainers, plain tee-shirt and muggle denims, and Narcissa feels a stab of shock that he is making an effort to be properly dressed.  Even if he is far from being pureblood proper, he looks far more attractive and approachable in the new muggle attire and she idly wonders how he would look dressed as a proper pureblood wizard.

 

They have barely sat down when Harry tells her about Professor McGonagall, and how she was the first woman he looked up to, who he wanted to demonstrate his worth to.  He takes a small sip of the lemony herbal she had chosen for that day. “There’s no way I’ve made her proud. Not truly. She doesn’t know even a fraction of what laws we had to break over our year on the run, and what she does know barely touches any of it.”

 

She is surprised at both his words and the candor in which he says them.  “Harry, I too had Minerva as a professor, and let me tell you that once you are one she considers precious, you will be hard pressed to lose that status.”  She thinks about Sirius and his friends, and the way she knew Minerva would allow things to slide by when their pranks would go a tad far.

 

He appears to not fully believe her, but she does not press the issue.  She knows trust is difficult for him based on their conversations thus far.  They are nearing the end of their meeting, she can see his cup is nearly empty and he only has a bite left of the sandwich on his plate, and she can’t stop the words from leaving her mouth.  


“Would you care to stay past tea today?  I am planning on doing some pruning in the gardens today, and would not mind the company.”  She hadn’t been planning on doing so prior to her question, but she couldn’t think of any other reason that could possibly keep him here longer and thus gave into her impulses.  
  
After a couple of heartbeats, he nods.  “Yeah, okay. Now?”

 

“If you are finished, we can go now.”  She says and he pops the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and stands.  

 

She frowns a little at the rather uncouth display - perhaps his overall manners will be a subject she can approach him about at some point but she leads the way out the elegant glass doorway to the main patio at the edge of the gardens.

 

As she shows him how she wants everything to be pruned and tended, she uses her best calming tones as she explains and talks to him and does not pry.  She observes him for a bit, saddened by just how proficient he is at the task at hand and wishing yet again to do _something_ to the Dursleys.

 

After he’s completed an entire large rose bush, he starts to share about his year hunting horcruxes.  

 

He tells her in very quiet tones about how they polyjuiced as ministry employees and stole from the Ministry.  About how they had to kill in order to stay alive. How they had to steal from farms and shops in order to eat.  How Gringotts was destroyed because of him, and he is afraid the goblins will turn on him any day and not allow him back in.  How there were times when they had to cast unforgivables, and how can he be pardoned for his usage when other people are in Azkaban for the same curses?  
  
When he stops talking mid sentence, voice too tight to continue, she looks at him carefully and is pained at the tormented look twisting his features.  After clearing his throat a few times, and a couple of restarts before his voice was clear enough to understand, he tells her in a low tone how he has spent every day since his name came out of the cup fourth year wishing something would just kill him already so he wouldn’t have to have all this on his shoulders.   
  
Narcissa recognizes that he has never told anyone this.  And she realizes she feels touched that this boy would trust her, of all people, with this information.   
  
She is nothing but calm and puts as much warmth into her tone as she could as she tries to give him comforting words and worries she had failed when she realizes he has silent tears running down his cheeks.   
  
Instead, Harry reaches out and squeezes her hands, murmuring how it is very clear to him why Draco feels so strongly about her, how he can see why her son would do anything for her.  And she can tell by looking at how earnestly Harry says these things that he craves touch, craves love, that he would do anything to have what she gives Draco and she makes a decision to give Harry a choice.     
  
“I would like to give you a hug, if that is acceptable to you.”   
  
Green eyes that are shimmering with emotion search hers and she holds a steady gaze, and is startled briefly when he moves suddenly, weeping onto her shoulder.  She comforts him with soothing fingers through tangled hair and a warm palm up and down the spine, much as she did Draco whenever he was frightened or distraught as a child.

 

When he withdraws from her, she tactfully ignores his red eyes and dripping nose and allows him time to pull himself together.  The rest of their time in the garden that afternoon is spent swapping painful moments and thoughts. She tells him about how she had lost a child before as well as a child after Draco and how she fears that because of this, she doted on him to the point of ruin.  

 

And he tells her about how how Molly took him in, calls him on of her own, but it just isn’t quite the same, about how it seems that if there’s ever an issue between one of her kids and him, she has always and will always take their side.  How he’s terrified that one day, she’ll just throw him out of their family, how he fears that she has plenty of children, she’d never notice if he wasn’t there, that he isn’t enough, he’d never be able to fill the void that Fred has left behind.

 

There’s a long period of silence before Narcissa cups his trembling chin in her delicate hand and whispers to him, fingers stroking his jawline gently, soothingly.  “Harry, a mother will always have enough love to share with others. Anyone who would callously set you aside because of whatever reason is not worthy of your time or your affections.”   Here she pauses, assessing if she should tack on the last bit of her thought. The shimmer in his eyes decides for her. “Harry, with everything you’ve told me about Molly Weasley, I highly doubt she would cast you aside as if you were nothing.  I feel it would be nigh impossible for her to do that to you.”

 

She watches as his face crumples and he weeps silently again and she presses him to her chest in a manner that she hopes is a comfort and waits for him to be finished expelling his emotions.  When he wipes away the second flood of tears and sits up, shifting around as if embarrassed, she offers to him in a normal speaking voice that unless the weather is poor the following Saturday, he should wear comfortable clothes to work in the garden.  He laughs, agrees, and hesitates a moment before hugging her again and then darting down the path to the ward border to apparate away.

 

Perhaps she will connect their floos and add him to the wards.

 

Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  

 

She should probably give him permission to use her first name before she connects their floos.  It would only be sensible.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 9

~~*~*~~


	10. Tuesday, 8 July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I've been off on my days apparently. I thought today was Monday all day until I got home.

##  Harry

 

~~*~*~~

 

“Harry James Potter, have you been meeting with my sister behind my back?!”

 

Andromeda Tonk’s voice is echoing through his house at... _oh merlin what time is it_?  He squints and casts a quiet lumos at his alarm clock.  He groans.  At five in the morning.  She is yelling in his house at five in the sodding morning.

 

Why him?

 

He pulls himself out of his bed and drags himself down the stairs to see the very formidable witch standing at the front landing.  “I’ve been having tea with her on Saturday afternoons. But I wasn’t doing it behind your back.”

 

It wasn’t as if he needed her permission to have tea with someone nor had Andromeda ever forbidden him from seeing anyone from her family.

 

She waves a sheet of crumpled parchment in his direction and scowls.  Harry secretly thinks she looks like Bellatrix's twin with that wild look in her eyes but values his life enough to keep his mouth shut.  “Then why did she owl me?”

 

Oh merlin save him from hysterical women in their mid forties, even ones he likes.  He barely tolerated girls his own age. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me she was going to write you.  We’ve talked a bit about you, because I wanted to know more about the family, especially Sirius.”

 

If anything, her scowl deepens, but Harry’s far from caring about that.  She’s the one who told him that Narcissa was closer to Sirius than she, that they were closer in age to each other, and that she was older enough that she chose not to interact much with the younger cousins.

 

He knows from Sirius’ stories she’s not telling him the truth, but that is her choice.  He doesn’t have to like it, but he’s also in control of his emotions and won’t allow himself to be angry over her personal decisions.

 

“But nothing else?”  She asks, disbelieving.  She seems less angry and Harry takes this as a positive sign.

 

“Nothing else.  I haven’t asked her to write you, and she hasn’t told me she intended to.”  Harry tries to sound as reassuring as possible. He is one hundred percent telling the truth here, and if there’s any time he wants someone to just trust him, it would be now.

 

He’s relieved when she finally nods slowly and slumps a little against the door.  “She’s apologized, Harry.”

 

And he has spent enough time around both women to know just how significant the letter truly is.  “What are you going to say?”

 

She finally turns hopeless eyes on him and his heart breaks a little for her.  He’s not sure how he would feel were Dudley to extend a genuine apology - or if say Arthur Weasley and Dudley started going to cricket matches together.  He knows that the two women have been harboring their mutual resentment for far longer than he and his cousin. 

 

“I don’t know, Harry.”  She sounds broken and lost and her expression is one of a woeful little girl.  “I just don’t know.”

 

~~*~*~~

 

After Andromeda leaves, he’s absolutely unable to fall back asleep and decides to make an attempt to tame the mess in the bedroom Sirius had turned into his study.  The desk is covered with haphazardly flung parchment and tipped ink bottles and he smiles at the evidence of the chaos that had followed his godfather in the wake of wherever he went.

 

He picks the first parchment he touches and scans the contents.  It appears to be an unfinished letter to Remus and it’s all Harry can do to not burst into tears.  None of the marauders survived Voldemort’s two separate reigns of terror and both of their sons are orphans.  It’s enough to make anyone emotional.

 

Wiping his eyes, he transfigures a blank sheet of parchment into a letter box he places the unfinished letter in.  He might as well organize the papers between personal, financial, and whatever else he finds.  At the bottom of the second stack, he finds something that has him freezing in his tracks, hands barely holding onto the three page document.  

 

_ Declaration of Intent to Perform Magical Adoption _

 

His next breath in catches when he reads his name along with Sirius’ along various lines on the form.  Sirius had wanted to adopt him?  He scans the document, ignoring all the technical jabber and boring information, and stops when the writing suddenly ceases it’s neat scrawl and turns into angry scribbling cursing Albus Dumbledore.   The rest of the form remained blank.  He’s frozen, just staring at the forms.  A thousand questions are flying through his head, questions that he’s had since a lot of truths have emerged about the headmaster, and questions that are new.  The first and foremost that is overwhelming him is the one he’s had ever since the end of his first year when Dumbledore had told him he had to stay with the Dursley’s and would hear nothing more about it.   Why?  Why were the blood wards so important he had to stay in a house who hated him, and locked him away like he were either a criminal or wild creature?  Why would he not have been safe with Sirius at Grimmauld?

 

Harry sighs.  It’s useless to think on the questions now.  The only one who can answer them died by what essentially ended up being a mercy killing, and Harry will never know if the man he thought of as a hero was truly that, or something far more sinister.   He supposes he would rather just think of the man as human and accept he had his strengths and weaknesses like everyone else.  He had his reasons for doing things, and had never disclosed them to Harry before. Why would he have done so about where Harry had been forced to grow up?  

 

He gently places the incomplete forms into the personal papers basket and lifts the next parchment.  It’s a letter with the Gringotts seal on it, and it is addressed to Sirius on behalf of one Harry J. Potter.  

 

“Odd.”  He mutters.  “I never asked Gringotts to do anything like this.”

 

He only hesitates a moment before opening the envelope and reading the contents.

 

_ Lord Black,  _

 

_ We are notifying you per your request that your application to name Harry James Potter as your sole heir of the Black estate.  As such, the Black and Potter estates and titles of Lord for both when he comes of age should he wish to claim. _

 

_ If you choose to claim the Black Lordship before Harry James Potter comes of age, then he will gain the title upon your death. _

 

_ Included is a letter to be given to Harry James Potter once he has reached his majority. _

 

_ Thank you for your continued patronage. _

 

_ Gringotts Wizarding Bank _

_ Diagon Alley _

 

Harry blinks in astonishment.  He is a Lord.

 

Technically, a lord twice over, should he choose to accept both of the titles.

 

His breathing quickens and he stares at the Gringotts letter with unseeing eyes.  It’s only Kreature’s voice that brings him back to the present. 

 

“Master Harry, breakfast is ready.”

 

His stomach rumbles at the very word, and he wordlessly follows the elf down to the kitchen island where he usually takes his meals still clutching the letter with his name on it.  It’s as he’s dishing himself a plate of pancakes and roasted potatoes when he realizes he has yet again given himself more food than he remembers ever eating before.  He has piled on at least twice as much food as he normally does, and immediately fixes Kreature with a look.

 

The elf has the audacity to look innocent. 

 

“What did you do to my food?”  He demands, and the elf sighs and shakes his head slowly.   

 

“Master Harry does not eat enough.  Kreature noticed that Master Harry is underweight and used an elf treatment for young children who are too picky.”  The old elf explained in his croaky, bullfrog voice and Harry has to fight the automatic response to yell at the elf.  Instead, he thinks back on the past month.  

 

He’s a far healthier weight than he ever has been, he no longer looks like a rangy chicken, and he actually has a decent amount of energy for once in his life.  Instead of responding verbally, he smiles weakly and gives Kreature a nod and begins to eat his food.   
  


Kreature’s smug grin shows all his teeth.  

 

“How would I go about accepting a Lordship?”  Harry asks absently, and the elf’s toothy smile only grows wider.  

 

“Kreature will make Master Harry an appointment at Gringotts.  That will be Master's first step.” He growls out. Harry nods and takes another bite of pancake.

 

Him, a Lord?  He can scarcely believe it. 

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 10

~~*~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andromeda’s age is assuming she was born exactly in between Bellatrix in 1951 and Narcissa in 1955, making Andromeda 45 and Narcissa 43 in this story.


	11. Chapter 11

#  Saturday, 12 July

##  Narcissa

~~*~*~~

_ Today is the day _ .  

She has been wishing to do this for awhile, yet is only now finding the courage to do so.  Today, Mrs. Malfoy will become Narcissa, or hopefully Cissa, to the young man she has come to think of already as family.

Nearly as if he were her own.

_ Is this truly only the 6th of his visits? _  It feels like it has been going on for longer.   Her eyes drift to the hills that roll on across the horizon.  She wonders on why she has yet to hear back from her sister, yet she knows the most likely scenario of what has happened to her missive.

She hopes Andromeda at least read the letter before casting into the fire.

“Mother, why do you insist on continuing to meet with Potter?”  

Draco’s tone startles her out of her morose thoughts.  The tiny quiver tells her that he is truly distressed, that the question does not come from jealousy at attention directed at another but true bafflement at her actions.

“As I told you the first time, I need it, and so does he.”

“And so do I, you also said.”  He wrinkles his nose at her. “I fail to see how.”  His eyebrow twitches in the way it always has when he is telling her a lie, and she holds onto her amusement.  She can see him struggling with something, and nearly holds her breath in anticipation. He does not disappoint.  

“I wish to join you.”

She is honestly is surprised by what she hears, despite her long desire to have Draco accept Harry’s visits as permanent.  Unfortunately, it is also not her permission to grant. “You must ask Harry that, love. It is his time with me.”

He frowns.  She knows it is because he is unaccustomed to her telling him no on something, but it is truly something she cannot grant. 

“I’m not sure I understand.”

She is saved from having to answer by Tibby announcing the early arrival of Mister Harry Potter before ushering the young man into the room.     
  
Harry nods at Draco, who politely says “Good afternoon, Potter.  Excuse me, please.” And he looks slightly unsettled as he watches her son walks upstairs, obviously unaccustomed to a polite Draco and she hides her smile.

~~*~*~~

  
Today, they eat in silence for a while before Harry sits back on his heels with a perplexed sort of expression.  “Mrs. Malfoy, I was wondering…”

She waits for him to continue, and when he fails to, she gently speaks up.  “Harry, I believe we are far past the time for you to call me Narcissa or even Cissy should you wish.”   
  


And she can see him start, his face briefly frozen before he grins unabashed.  She can see when he remembers where he is and who he is with and is amused to see him attempt to reign in his face and fail.  “Narcissa, then.” She is mildly impressed at the almost smooth, slightly aristocratic tone he’s managed and idly wonders who he is mimicking.  “I was wondering, if you could teach me…” He trails off again and then winces. “I suppose that’s something I’ll work on. Probably isn’t proper to trail off in the middle of a sentence.”   
  


She hides a smile, and vanishes the pile of clippings they had just pruned. “Harry, you never have struck me as someone who cares much about what is proper.”

He nods, then winces again.  “I know. But I found out some...illuminating things this past week, and would like to accept them, but I can’t unless I can do it.”  He pinks under her searching gaze and when she stands, he follows.    
  


Silently, they make their way to the gardens.  Only when they are both seated under a shade tree does she reply.  “I believe you should start from the beginning.”   
  


And he does.  He tells her about how Sirius was his godfather, and had made him his heir and shows her the aborted adoption papers.  He also mentions how he found out that since his father was pureblood, even if not part of the sacred 28, he had been a Lord even if the first war had prevented him from officially claiming the title.     
  


He has the chance of taking over the Black name and title since he was Sirius’s heir, but he also recognizes that she was a Black and maybe Draco would be more appropriate even if he was already the Malfoy heir.  “I have to decide by the end of August for the Ministry Lords Dinner. If I say no, then they’ll come to you about the Black inheritance. And if I say yes, I have to go through all the pomp and circumstance, and I just can’t shame my family and my heritage by blundering my way through these events like I usually do.”  After a pause, he flushes and looks away, and she marvels at the look of determination in his eyes.

She knows exactly what to do.  “Harry, I have no need for another inheritance.”  Her tone is wry when she speaks, her mind racing through planning what will essentially be a crash course in pureblood traditions.  It is almost as if she has been waiting for this day to come.

When his eyes meet hers in surprise, she continues.  “And neither does Draco, I assure you. I believe you should accept at least Potter, if not the Black title as well, but that will be your choice, of course.  Now, come.” Narcissa leads the way into the house. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”   
  


He shrugs and she resists the urge to correct the motion.  All in good time. “Nothing?”   
  


“Wonderful.  We shall meet at Diagon Alley at 10 am in front of Gringotts.”   
  


He nods, hands shoved into his pockets.  “Yeah, sure.”   
  


Her look turns stern at the response and she cannot help but correct this blunder.  After all, she’s finally been given permission to do so. “The proper response will never be ‘yeah sure’.  You simply say ‘yes, thank you’ or ‘I look forward to it’, with your hands clasped in front of you while speaking in docile tones.  How you speak is just as important as what you wear and how you act. Our lesson tomorrow will be attire, but it would be remiss of me to allow this to pass without comment.”   
  


Harry immediately attempts to follow her instructions, and murmurs “I look forward to our outing tomorrow, Narcissa.”   
  


She returns the gesture.  “Until then, Harry.” She is a picture of grace as she climbs the stairs to her room.  Once out of sight, she looks back down to the foyer to see Draco comes out of the side study and freeze.  It is obvious that he had been expecting Harry to be gone already and she is curious to see how their interaction will play out.     
  


She feels a jolt of pride when Harry decides to practice proper speech patterns and bows his head at Draco.  “Your mother is a wonderful woman.” She smiles at the kind words and the stiff bow. She wants to laugh at the flabbergasted expression on her son’s face.   
  


“She is.”  He finally replies softly, a calculating look searching Harry’s face.    
  


Harry tilts his head a little, a strange sort of gleam in his eyes as he returns the searching look, and adds before he opens the door to leave.  “Thank you for sharing her with me, Draco.” Narcissa and Harry wince at the same time, both aware he made a social faux paux. “I apologize. I was not given permission to use your name informally.  Until next time, Mr. Malfoy.”    
  


He strides very quickly through the door, spine stiff, and she knows he misses the wide eyed frozen look of shock on Draco’s face.    
  


Narcissa sees every flicker of uncertainty and hope that pulses on her beloved son’s face as he watches Harry’s back as he leaves and she smiles with pride.  Yes, Harry Potter-Black will indeed be able to claim the title of Lord, she would stake all her fortunes on it. And if the look on Draco’s face is any indication of how he feels, and she knows it is, Draco will be joining them for their Saturday tea from hence forward.    
  


And maybe, just maybe, she will get a reprieve from “Potter this”, and “Potter that”.  After 7 solid years, it is getting rather tiresome. 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 12

~~*~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes. Updated on a day not usual. If you are reading my Childhood Well Spent story then you will see something like this at the bottom note there as well. 
> 
> Change in updating. I will be updating this on a "as I finish a chapter" basis. Having a strict schedule for me is not at all helpful to my mental health. I write to relax and unwind after my day and this whole self-imposed must-post-by-this-day is extremely not relaxing and is actually making it so I sit down to write and instead want to cry. 
> 
> I’ll explain why. At least a little.
> 
> My writing muse is very affected by my mental illnesses and right now it really desperately wants to focus on my Dear Evan Hansen fic. I’ve been super depressed and overly anxious and basically everything wrong with my body that makes my very existence miserable has been acting up because of my overly active anxiety. Writing helps with that, a lot. And in writing my DEH fic, it’s been extremely therapeutic because of the inherent content always present in DEH, so I feel the need to do that right now. Especially because writing it is actually helping me in ways I never anticipated.
> 
> I emphasize that this is not me abandoning this or my other in progress fic, it’s me stepping back and realizing I am stressing myself out for no reason by forcing a schedule. Like my Raising Harry series, I have so much outlined for this story it’s insane and I love every minute of it.
> 
> Hugs and kisses to you all!


	12. Sunday, 13 July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have through chapter 15 done, so I'm just gonna post one a day until they're out because I love them and you all deserve to have them while I keep working on the last half of the story.

#  Sunday, 13 July

##  POV changes a bit between Harry and Narcissa

 

~~*~*~~

  
  
“Lady Malfoy.”  

 

He’s aiming for polite, but his discomfort won out. He hates crowds, hates being touched by any one other than a select few, hates being on display.  He knows he’s just being measured for new robes and he’s done this every year since he was eleven, but he still feels like everyone is watching and it’s making his skin crawl.  

  
  
“Yes, Mr. Potter?”  She is fingering a soft, dark mossy green cloth, pondering if it was the perfect shade for Harry’s olive skin.

  
  
He’s trying not to flinch every time the tailor’s hands touch some part of him.  “Would keeping facial hair be considered improper?” He is finding that he likes his facial hair and has decided to grow a beard and maybe his hair longer - but only if it was appropriate for a lord.

  
  
“The way it is now, the unkempt scruff, it is quite improper.  But only because it is considered improper to be seen at anything less than your best.  For instance, facial hair when left unattended, will look wild and unkempt, as if you hadn’t bathed recently.  If the facial hair is carefully groomed, oiled, trimmed, it is quite debonair.” She reaches out and fingers through his wild curls.  “I do believe that if you grew your hair, there would be a great many ways to wear it in a proper fashion. We’ll go to my salon next.  She uses the best grooming spells and charms I’ve seen.”

  
  
Harry instantly relaxes, glad to know she doesn’t want to simply shave his head and be done with it, and receives a poke from the tailor for his trouble.  They are on the last set of robes. He will be leaving today with 4 new sets of varying degrees of formal robes, complete with trousers and boots. 

  
  
“Another thing, Mr. Potter.  Always dress for the occasion.  If you were to dine with me at Malfoy Manor, you would dress more formally than you usually do, but not so formally as you would for a gala.  When you attend galas and banquets, such as at the Ministry, you will dress in the finest you have. When you go to a drinking establishment with your friends, you would wear more casually, such as those muggle denims you seem to favor so much.”  His head jolts up in surprise at this, and she grasps his hands and leans in, speaking to him as she would Draco. “I do not wish to change who you are, darling. I simply wish to help bring out the best of you.”

  
  
It’s a struggle to not weep like a child, Harry decides, when a mother’s love is directed at you so strongly.  Not even Molly Weasley has invoked this sort of reaction and he is unsure of how to proceed. It’s all almost too much for him to process.  She lets go and steps back, and he turns back to the mirror. 

  
  
He scans his reflection, twisting a little to see other angles.  “I think this one may be my favorite.” His voice is barely above a whisper, as if he’s ashamed of acknowledging his attractiveness.  

  
  
Narcissa nods in agreement, a little bemused by the timid behavior of the boy who has been in the spotlight since he was eleven.  One would assume the child is used to the scrutiny by now, and it is rather refreshing to be one of the privileged to know the real Harry that lays beneath the Boy Who Lived persona - the one who actually despises the public eye and all the attention.  

 

She says none of this out loud, of course, instead pulling at bits of the fabric to help the robe lay correctly and nods approvingly.  “This would work very well as your most formal event robes. I personally could see you wearing this the evening of the dinner.” And if she knows her darling son as well as she thinks she does, Draco will need to pick his jaw up off the floor when he sees Harry wearing them and that of course is the very best reason to encourage the purchase of his current outfit. 

  
  
The black robes fall nearly to the floor and are tightly fitted on his torso and arms, flaring at the waist and open down the front to reveal the trousers and waistcoat.  The designs woven into the fabric are done in a green thread so dark that it nearly blends in with the fabric. The black dragonhide trousers cling to all the right places and Harry can not believe that he’s looking at his own reflection.  He idly thinks that he almost could be attractive when he looks at his face. “I think this mirror is charmed.”

  
  
Narcissa raises an eyebrow at the somewhat morose tone in the young man’s voice.  “And what, pray tell, gives you that impression?”

  
  
He gestures helplessly at the mirror, despair in his eyes.  “I don’t see me. I see someone who looks like he could have an entire room eating out of the palm of his hand.  That’s not me. I...I…I’m boring, and plain. I'm only important because people think I did something impossible when I was barely over a year old when it was really my mother.”  

 

The last two words were exhaled in a whispered panic, his hand shaking as he gestures at the mirror in question.  He barely notices Narcissa move behind him and place her hands lightly on his shoulders. He jumps slightly when he hears her speak.

  
  
“I see a wonderful young man who sees the good in everyone around him, but is blind to his own.  What your Dursleys did to you pains me so, because you are worthy of so much more. You have spent much of your life believing that you have no worth, that you are a burden.”  She moves in front of him, clasps his hands, and peers into his eyes. “You deserve to enjoy new clothes, clothes that fit and are designed for you to look your best. You are allowed to look attractive, Mr. Potter, especially if it’s for for the purely selfish reason of just because you wish to.”

  
  
Harry is smiling gently now and pulls her hands up so he can place a kiss on the back of one.  “A small part of me wants to finish our outing wearing this, but the biggest part of me is terrified of even more attention.”  He hates nothing more than the gawking and gaping wherever he goes. It is getting rather tiresome.

  
  
“Yes, well, it is a bit more formal than a simple shopping trip demands.”  He watches as she gently releases herself and floats over to the deep moss green cloth she had been fondling gently before. “What would you say to a more casual robe out of this fabric?”

  
  
He squints at the fabric and grins.  “I think that would look nice. I’m glad I wore neutral colors today.”  The tailor immediately began preparing supplies while Harry quickly changes back into his white button down with the tiny grey dots that match his charcoal grey chinos and stands back on the short stool.  

 

The tailor sets to work creating a comfortable robe that would be simple enough for every day yet also be classy.  The robes fall about mid-calf and long slits on either side divides the fabric from the waist down into three sections, the middle a bit larger. The sleeves are more fitted than he was expecting, but loose enough to accommodate the use of long sleeved shirts or sweaters.  The wrists are wrapped in embroidered black leather, with an angled slit at the pulse point of his wrists and the fabric is embroidered with delicate black designs. 

  
  
Harry happily pays for his new robes and is about to have all but the green robe sent to 12 Grimmauld when he freezes and realizes that it is still under fidalus and his packages won’t find their way.  He resists the urge to sigh and requests that the packages are shrunk so he can put them in his pocket. “So, stylist next?”

  
  
Narcissa is quick to explain to the stylist what Harry’s ultimate goal is and the stylist grins. Harry looks terrified at the almost feral look in the well-groomed man’s eyes, and he finds himself quickly ushered into a chair.  

  
  
The stylist sets about, weaving complicated hair spells in a language he doesn’t recognize around his head. It takes less time then he was expecting, and soon he is watching his hair and beard slowly grow. The unruly mess of curls he's always struggled with soften under the weight of the new length and when the spells are finished, he stands close to the mirror and fingers through his shoulder length black loose curls with a speculative look.  He thinks he could be Sirius’s son with his hair and robes like this, and his heart twists a bit at the painful thought. 

  
  
He sits and listens as the stylist teaches him a couple of hair charms designed to style his hair in certain ways. He chooses three styles to learn for now; braided, half up, and loosely bunched at the base of his neck - he learns later that muggles call this a man bun. He decides on the bun for today, and decides that the rest of the afternoon will be used to perfect the three styles.

  
  
His facial hair is filled out now and trimmed so the skin is just covered, and he's stroking and poking at it thoughtfully, trying to decide if he likes it. He scans himself up and down in the mirror and realizes that he feels more like ‘just Harry’ than he ever has. 

  
He thanks the stylist profusely, pays and leaves a generous tip, and strides out of the salon with his head held high. His posture is confident and he is grinning. “I might have to come back and buy more everyday robes, as well.” 

  
  
“I rather thought you might, once you experienced what proper wizard clothing feels like.” Narcissa’s smile is amused.  “I was thinking that perhaps you should start joining us at the manor one or two evenings each week for etiquette lessons.”  

  
  
“I would not want to impose further.”  Harry says quickly. He still feels like Malfoy resents his presence in the manor and it’s second nature for him to avoid imposition by now.  His aunt saw to that particular trait of his.

 

“On the contrary.  I find your company something to look forward to, and if you can forgive my forwardness, Draco has come to me thrice now asking me to allow him to join our Saturday afternoon teas.  I told him he must talk to you.”

 

He feels touched that she defended his privacy like that against her own son.  He wonders why Malfoy hasn’t talked to him yet, and wonders if it would behoove him to extend the first olive branch.

 

After a moment of short discussion, the pair agrees on Tuesdays and Thursdays for etiquette lessons, keeping Saturday as their relaxed tea.

  
  
“Until Tuesday, Mr. Potter.”  She clasps his hands and looks at him expectantly.

  
  
“I look forward to our lessons, Lady Malfoy.”  He bows over her hands and places a kiss on the knuckles.

  
  
She smiles approvingly and they part, Narcissa apparating back to the Manor, and Harry taking the time to wander up and down Diagon to find a present for Teddy.  He hasn’t seem Andromeda since she raged at him in his home, and he might as well not show up empty handed to her cottage.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 12

~~*~*~~

 


	13. Tuesday, 15 July

#  Tuesday, 15 July

 

##  Harry

 

~~*~*~~

 

The remodeling of Number 12 is finally complete.  Even with magic, the process has not been easy, though it has proven to be rather enjoyable at times.  The house, as of this morning however, had still seemed too empty, and Harry decided he needed to be out buying little decorative things that made him feel happy and more normal.  When Harry returned from Muggle London’s various odds-and-ends stores, he paused just upon entering the house to admire his and Kreature’s hard work.

 

The long, dark, gloomy hallway that had greeted guests upon entering has been replaced by a crisp plaster that has been painted a soft grey that is closer to blue than it is either black or white.  The dark beams of the interior framework have been left unpainted, contrasting dramatically with the soft plaster of the walls. The troll-leg umbrella stand has been banished rather than simply sold or put away and Mrs. Black is no longer in view having been relocated to attic, though he has it on good authority that the portrait has a semi-permanent elven silencing charm when Kreature declared he was tired of being screamed at by insane Blacks.

 

He places the bag of items destined for the library just inside the propped open tall, slim french doors as he walks past to go downstairs to the basement kitchen to put away one bag of kitchen accessories in what he still considers his dream kitchen come to life.  He covers the dining table with a white tablecloth patterned with stripes of the same sea greens and blues accenting the kitchen and solid place mats that were in the same greens and blues as well. 

 

Satisfied the last couple of things to round out the kitchen and dining room are perfect in their new homes, he trudges his way up the stairs to the main level to empty the library nicknacks and some of his favorites of the heirlooms he found in the Black and Potter vaults onto their places on the shelves in what he hoped was a tasteful manner. 

 

And once he is done with that, he is going to finish decorating the three guest rooms directly above his own master suite before he needs to ready himself for dinner at Malfoy Manor.

 

He isn’t going to lie to himself and say he  _ isn’t _ feeling nervous because he had promised himself after Voldemort fell that one of the things he wants to do is to start being more honest with how he’s feeling before it turns into a huge mess that takes Headmaster’s offices and turns them into scenes of mass destruction.  And besides, why  _ wouldn’t _ he be nervous when attending the first meal out of many designed to turn him from an uncultured, socially awkward teenager to a young man worth of the title of Lord?  Bloody nerve wracking, it was. 

 

He tries to distract himself by planning a Sunday lunch with the Weasley’s to be hosted here by himself.  He’s very proud of his house, and he wants to show it off to the people he loves. Plus, he thinks it could be something that can get George out of bed and he’ll do anything right now to accomplish that.  

 

He’s asked his mind healer already if there is ever a time they can impose therapy, such as if George was thought to be a danger to himself.  The healer had thought for a bit before sighing and telling Harry that it would have to be brought before a panel of mind healers and other supporters and he would have to present his case and prove that George was no longer able to make decisions for his own health.  And even that approach is not going to be a guarantee of help for George. It will only end up causing more problems for everyone, and make everything worse.

 

The only guaranteed way George would receive help was if the man asks for it himself. 

 

~~*~*~~

  
He chooses his burgundy robes with the navy stitching and accents and then covers it with a black traveling cloak.  He then immediately questions his choice as soon as the door opens to reveal Narcissa herself in what he would have assumed would be more appropriate for a ball with the Queen, not dinner with himself.  He had practiced the half up style charm he had learned until he could make the waves of his hair fall in a decently elegant way and now he suddenly wishes for the style to vanish so he could hide behind his hair from her appraising look.

 

He still just doesn’t understand how anyone can think he is anything close to being attractive.  He’s dressed in some of the finest clothing he owns and he still feels woefully underdressed and rather troll like in appearance.

 

“Good evening, Harry.”  She says warmly, and Harry marvels that he is allowed to witness this side of Narcissa Malfoy.  Was this really the same icy woman he had met in Diagon just before sixth year?

 

“Good evening, Cissa.”  He replies and allows Tibby to remove his outer cloak and disappear with it.  “I really appreciate you being willing to teach me. I still feel hopeless about it, but I might as well try, you know?”

 

He’s a little startled when she laughs merrily and motions that he should follow her and he does.  “Anyone can accomplish proper manners, Harry. All it takes is the willingness to try and to learn.  The speed at which you learn does not matter.”

 

Except he has only until the end of August, really.  And when he voices the thought out loud she just laughs again.  

 

“Harry, honestly.”  It’s uncanny how much like  _ Hermione _ the woman sounds like right now and he is suddenly aching with how much he misses his best friends.  

 

He quirks a smile and stops just as they enter the dining room.  Draco is already seated at one side of the table, with an empty plate across from him and one at the end of the table.  It is a rather lonely sight, only three plates at the massive dining table, and Harry wonders why they eat in here when they have such beautiful little rooms with perfectly acceptable small dining sets.

 

Tradition, he supposes.  Most likely, it is a rich person thing he can never hope to understand.  He might be a Potter, as well as the heir to the Black fortune, but he grew up the unwanted, starved nephew of people who only gave him hand-me-downs for any of his belongings, toothpaste and soap aside.  

 

Even his toothbrush had always been Dudley’s old, chewed, barely any useable brush left toothbrush.  He never used the nasty thing, always choosing instead to rub at his teeth with first a paper towel and then scrubbing with the toothpaste on a clean finger.  He would of course wet the toothbrush as proof he wasn’t wasting their generosity and to avoid some obscure punishment as a result.

 

“Today’s lesson is on posture.”  Her eyes look first to Harry and then over to Draco.  

 

He takes the hint and looks over at the blond as well and he unconsciously straightens up his spine when he realizes he’s hunched over while Draco’s shoulders are proud and straight.  

 

His eyes widen when her eyes laugh at him and he realizes what he just did and flushes.  “That was exactly what you should have done, Harry.” 

 

A tiny cough has him glancing over at Draco who appears to be trying not to smile and he suddenly finds himself wanting to smile, too.

 

“Keep your shoulders pulled back and level and think of your spine as a tree standing proud.”  She purposely hunches her shoulders in before sitting back in her prim position and he immediately understands what she is talking about and wiggles his shoulders a little in an effort to relieve some of the instant odd tension in his back.  

 

Proper posture hurt.

 

“The discomfort will fade the more often you practice the motions.”  Her tone is meant to be assuring and calm, but he’s far from assured.  He hates being uncomfortable, especially now that he’s been experiencing what life can be like without discomfort.

 

When the food pops onto the table, he still nearly jumps at the suddenness despite six years of Hogwarts meals.  He itches to dig in to the platters of steaming vegetables and roasted lamb, but something in Narcissa’s eyes holds him in his place.  She nods approvingly and speaks. “The hostess always eats first, and barring none, the host. Were we a larger group, ettique would dictate that we wait until all have been served their meal before beginning to eat.”

 

She dishes herself a spoonful of the potatoes and Draco immediately moves to serve the first slice of lamb to his mother and then to Harry before himself.  “If you are serving a dish, you begin with the host or hostess, and end with yourself. If a dish is being passed, it always moves to the right.” He explains quietly before falling silent once more.  

 

It’s almost eerie how quiet Draco is tonight.  It’s a far cry from the brash, loud, confident boy he knows from school.  He wonders now if it was all simply misperceptions, like he himself had experienced all through his life.

 

Intrigue towards Draco Malfoy only grows and Harry is forced to wrench his eyes from the primly dressed form currently dishing him out a slice of the perfectly roasted lamb when Draco looks at him to hand him back the plate.

 

It wouldn’t be on to let him know now just how much Harry watches him.   He almost wishes for the once immediate flash of irritation or hatred whenever the two interacted.  Any other emotion in regards to Draco is simply too much, too confusing. He just wants to avoid thinking about it right now.  He has too much to think on already, like turning himself into a man worthy of being a lord.

 

What a bloody laugh.

 

Maybe he should ask Draco to join them on Saturdays.

 

Or maybe he shouldn’t.

 

Maybe he should wait for Draco to want to join them.  He hopes Draco does.  

 

He also kind of hopes Draco doesn’t. He honestly doesn’t know how he’ll react if Draco ever does ask to join them for tea.

 

~~*~*~~

 

He’s donning his cloak on when a certain blond slips out of the shadows.  “Potter?”

 

He whirls and nods politely when he sees the uncertain look on his face.  “Malfoy.” He tries not to let himself hope. For what, he’s not sure.

 

He watches as Draco’s adam’s apple jumps when he swallows.  There’s a familiar faint tremor in thin hands that Harry knows well and realizes that the other boy is  _ nervous _ .  And isn’t that a shocker, to have visual confirmation right in front of him that Draco Lucius Malfoy is in fact human with human needs and anxieties like himself.

 

When it looks like Draco isn’t going to speak after all, Harry sighs almost in relief and turns back to fastening the fiddly little buttons on his traveling cloak.  He would much rather wear his zip hoodie, but he knows that would definitely not be appropriate to bring to Malfoy Manor during his pureblood lessons. 

 

“I’d like to join you for Saturday on tea.”  He blurts out, and immediately flushes a brilliant red when Harry can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes at the butchered sentence.  “I mean…”

 

“I know.”  Harry manages to say, and sobers his laughter a bit at the discomfited look on Draco’s face.  “I mean, I’ve been sort of hoping you would. You’re welcome to join whenever you wish.”

 

And he’s stunned when Draco gives him a quick, but genuine, grin through the embarrassment.  “Thank you. I suppose I shall see you Saturday, then.” He says with a faint smile still wrinkling his eyes and Harry suddenly can’t remember for the life of him why he and Draco had not attempted to get along like this before.

 

“Saturday.”  Harry repeated with a grin of his own and his pulse thumping just a tad harder than normal and maybe he  _ will _ think about his confusing thoughts towards his one time enemy once he’s home tonight.  “Yes, I will see you then.”

 

He’s still thinking about it when he’s sprawled over his bed that night staring at the dark ceiling, unable to sleep. 

 

_ Saturday _ .

 

He should go see Andromeda and Teddy before Saturday.

 

_ Draco is going to join my tea time _ .

 

He tries to count sheep.

 

The sheep all turn to white ferrets bouncing like balls and he winces at the memory of a terrified, disheveled Malfoy from fourth year and he gives up completely on sleep.  He looks over at his alarm clock and groans. 

 

One in the sodding morning.

 

Might as well write a letter to Ron and Hermione.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 13

~~*~*~~

  
  



	14. Chapter 14

#  Saturday, 19 July

##  Narcissa

 

~~*~*~~

 

He carries with him today a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper and simple twine.  In place of a bow sits a small bundle of wild flowers and she falls in love with the presentation.  It’s very...Harry. Simple yet thoughtful. 

  
She wonders if he realizes his actions could be interpreted as him asking for permission to court her son, and decides he probably isn’t aware of that tradition and she is most likely projecting herself and should probably stop.  If no one even told him about proper manners, there is not a chance anyone ever told him about obscure pureblood traditions. 

 

Pushing aside her wishful thinking, she accepts the offered gift and runs a gentle finger along the stems of the flowers.  “Do you wish me to open this now or after tea?”

 

He flushes and she finds it oddly endearing.  “After I leave, if you don’t mind. I just, um.  Well, I heard it was your birthday at the beginning of July and felt horrible I never knew.”

 

She can’t have heard him correctly.  He has actually brought her a present for a birthday shortly passed?  “Who gave you this information?” And more importantly, why? 

 

She places the wrapped box on the side entry table and leads the way to the outside patio, her hands clasped together to hide their shaking.  She wonders why his actions have her so shaken and resigns herself to picking apart the encounter later once sequestered in her sunroom.

 

“Has Andromeda written you back yet?”  He asks instead of answering her question, which she supposes answers it in a roundabout way.  But she can’t understand why Andromeda would care enough to tell Harry her birthday, unless he asked of course. 

 

But she also has not heard from her sister, either through letter, floo, or personal visit and she tells Harry this.  She knows she deserves the silence from her sister, but it still hurts. 

 

Harry hums, frowning just enough to put a tiny wrinkle in his forehead.  “Odd.” He mutters. “I could’ve sworn…” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry too much.  She actually helped me choose your gift.” He sits in what she calls Harry’s Chair, and not even Draco is allowed to sit there now.  

 

Draco calls her odd.  She calls herself sentimental.  Either way, Harry has a seat designation at the table and it will remain that way until Harry stops coming over.  She hopes he chooses to continue the visits, even when he no longer needs pureblood lessons. 

 

His words seem to echo in her head but of course she can’t help but worry, at least a little.  However, Harry seems to be implying that Andromeda’s lack of response isn’t due to unforgiveness or hatred, but perhaps anxiety and fear much like her own.  Her heart feels a bit lighter at the thought that perhaps soon she will speak again to her sister, her wonderful beloved big sister whom she has missed greatly over the years and will curse her own stubbornness until the day she dies.

 

They are soon sipping at a strawberry basil iced green tea as the elves have declared it to be too hot for anything but iced drinks and unlike her imprisoned husband, she will indulge the elves their little quirks.  She’s never agreed with how her aunt dealt with the elves, nor did she ever agree with Lucius’ cruelty towards them. She will probably never think of them as anywhere close to the same level as wizard kind, but she also will not diminish their intelligence or their magical abilities.  There is a reason, after all, why the elves sought servitude in the first place.

 

Today Harry seems quieter than normal.  Usually by now he’s offering some bit of story or information about his week, but he is sitting sipping in silence.  She observes him for a minute or two, and realizes he is watching the door to the manor and a thought starts to form.  

 

Is Harry waiting for Draco to make an appearance?  

 

If he is, does that mean Draco listened to her for once and initiated a conversation with him?

 

The expression on Harry’s face is growing dimmer and she suddenly knows she absolutely must distract him from whatever his inner thoughts are telling him.  “Draco’s first spot of accidental magic happened because I was too slow and he needed his dragon plushy before he could lay down for a nap. He was three at the time.”

 

Of course her thoughts are on Draco, so her distraction is Draco.  Perhaps not the wisest of moves when she’s certain Draco is the cause of Harry’s inner turmoil.  That son of hers had better not have promised to attend tea and then flaked out on Harry. She knows she raised him better than that. 

 

To her relief, Harry’s eyes light up a bit.  “Mine was one my relatives never found out about.  I figured out how to unlock my cupboard so I could …”

 

His voice trails off, a look of minor terror in his eyes that quickly fades to resignation, and she just  _ knows _ he was about to say something about so he could eat, or bathe, or some other basic human right that had been denied to him.  She’s listened quite well to his stories, and she’s painted a rather dismal image of his life up to now.

 

And she is horrified.  “You said you lived and slept in the cupboard but you never mentioned they locked you inside!”  She knows her voice shrill, but she can’t help her reaction. It’s absolutely abominable that they would treat any child, let alone a cherished member of the family, like something to be disgusted by.  

 

He shrugs and her blood boils at the seemingly blase way he acts about the abuse.  But his words cool the anger down. “They locked me away rather than beat me. They gave me scraps and things better suited as garbage, but at least they fed me.  Things could have been so much worse for me. So while I know I was abused, I choose to be thankful it wasn’t worse and put it behind me.”

 

“Harry…”  Her words trail off, sad and emotional.  How can he be so well adjusted about it?

 

But then he smiles sheepishly.  “Okay, please stop giving me that look.  I see a mind healer every Monday.” He admits with a slight dusting of pink on his cheeks.  “Kreature insisted.”

 

Before she can reply, before she can inquire for more information about his therapy, Draco appears in the doorway to the patio they’re sitting at and has the appearance of a frightened deer.  He looks absolutely terrified. Her eyes widen just a hair in surprise and looks quickly over to Harry to gage his reaction. 

 

Harry is sporting a rather lopsided grin, which is a far cry from just 30 seconds ago when he was moping into his tea.

 

So, Draco  _ had _ promised to show up to tea.  She wonders if she should scold him about punctuality, but keeps her words inside.  After all, it is none of her business.

 

Her son appears to wish to vanish back through the door, green in the face and trembling ever so slightly, but Harry speaks before he can flee.  “Any time, remember?”

 

Draco freezes briefly and then shoots Harry a minuscule flash of a smile before sitting in the third chair at the small round table and Narcissa marvels that somehow Harry has worked his charm and already ensnared Draco. 

 

Her son doesn’t speak, doesn’t add anything to the conversation, but he listens rapaciously whenever Harry shares a story.  Apparently her admission about Draco’s accidental magic has him nostalgic about the times his own accidental magic wasn’t noticed by the Dursleys.

 

Times he untied his cousin’s shoes while he was being chased so that a boy named Piers would step on the shoelace and both he and Dudley would fall over.  Dudley would be so upset at Piers for tripping him he would generally forget about Harry.

 

Times he was able to summon bits of food before he learned how to unlock the cupboard.  She hates those muggles more with each horrible thing she learns about the Dursleys and finds it difficult sometimes to remember that not all muggles are like that.  It’s especially difficult especially when she can see the pain still in Harry’s eyes when he recalls those days of hunger.

 

Times he would be able to coax a plant back to life or the ways he could keep the snakes and other animals out of the garden.  She wonders if it was a combination of his now-gone parsel abilities and an unconscious repelling ward cast by a child frightened by what his family might do to the poor defenseless animals. 

 

“I healed a baby mouse when I was seven.”  Draco whispers and Narcissa is far more poised than Harry when she looks at her son.  She sees him pink just a hair when he notices her gaze and knows that her pride in him is showing through and she’s embarrassed him. 

 

Good.  He needs more of that type of embarrassment.  Especially because Harry is now staring at Draco with deep interest and almost a bit of nausea, and she wonders how long it will take the young man to realize that what he is feeling is attraction.

 

By the time Narcissa is leading Harry to the north corner of the garden, Draco is making merlin awful  _ puns  _ and Harry looks like he has no idea how to handle this new version of Draco that Narcissa knows very few people are allowed to see.  She thought he had grown out of this pun fixation and realizes it had only disappeared when his fourth year happened and she sobers up rather quickly at the realization.

 

It had been the year a lot changed for them all, and nearly none of it for the better ultimately.

 

“Hey. Hey, Potter.”  Draco’s light, teasing tone comes from where she knows her collection of desert plants and cacti are in their protective warded area.  

 

She observes as Harry jerks his head around and looks at Draco quizzically.  “Yes, Malfoy?” He sounds cautious, and she nearly giggles at the look on her son’s face.  She hasn’t seen him this mischievous in years. 

 

Draco holds up a little potted cacti and grins.  “Lookin’ sharp.”

 

Harry groans and then shoves at Draco’s shoulder.  “I think that was your worst pun yet.” She is delighted the two seem to be able to get along.  Even if this doesn’t last long, at least now she knows they can get along.

 

“I can think of worse.”  Draco says imperiously as he gently places the little round cacti back on its pedestal.  “Just give me a moment.”

 

“Oh merlin spare me.”  Harry mutters, and she can’t hold in her giggles and accepts the dark glare her son shoots her with pride.

 

“Come now, we are pruning the rose bushes today, not making word play about cacti.”  She tries to sound admonishing, but she fears she’s too delighted in seeing the return of her playful son to sound serious enough for him to listen.

 

Harry immediately pulls on his dragon hide gloves while Draco sniffs and sits on the carved stone bench and crosses his legs primly.  With his nose in the air, he quips, “My fear of roses is a thorny issue. I'm not sure what it stems from, but it seems likely I'll be stuck with it."

 

It takes her a few moments to realize why Harry is nearly rolling on the ground in tears laughing and as soon as she understands she nearly throws her glove at him.  “Enough with the puns, Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

 

“I shant.”  He says with a snicker and crossed arms and she doesn’t have the heart to demand it of him.

 

It had mostly been Lucius who hated Draco’s jokes and puns and free spirit, who had said it wasn’t Malfoy to be so light hearted and fun.  She hates to be so against her bondmate, against the father of her beloved son, but she can’t help but notice the drastic positive change in Draco since the demise of the Dark Lord and Lucius’ imprisonment and the dislike she’s been feeling is slowly growing to hate against her husband for the damage inflicted upon their wonderful son.

 

Perhaps now Draco will start to understand just what she meant all those weeks ago when she told him Harry’s visits were important for him, as well.  So far, she’s only been proven correct.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 14

~~*~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it might seem like Harry is normalizing the abuse or something of that effect but he’s been seeing a mind healer now for three months, since about a week or so after the final battle. He’s had plenty of time to come to terms with some of the issues, and other times he’s repeating things in an effort to hide just how bad it all was. He’s still learning to remember that yes, it was abuse and he and others should be horrified about it. Something to that effect. I just want to make it clear that Harry is not trying to avoid dealing with the abuse, he’s seeing a professional weekly.
> 
>  
> 
> I have one more of these that was already written and will go up probably tomorrow, and chapter 16 is nearly done! God, I like posting whenever. I've actually been stressing because I desperately wanted you all to have the chapters sooner than I was "planning" and it's so stupid. Ah, well. Such is life. You live and learn.


	15. Thursday, 24 July

# Thursday, 24 July

 

## Harry

 

~~*~*~~

 

He is going out of his bloody mind trying to reconcile between the Draco Malfoy he knew in school and the Draco Malfoy who was at tea on Saturday.  He was definitely not acting like who Harry knew him to be, and it is going to give him a migraine if he can’t stop dwelling on how confused he is.

 

Nasty horrible Malfoy compared to awkward pun-master Draco.

 

He doesn’t know what to think.

 

He buries his head in his arms and wishes he had parents to talk to when things like this came up.  Then a little metaphorical light bulb flashes on and he flushes with immediate shame. “You’re a goddamn idiot, Potter.”  He mutters. Without lifting his head, he calls for Kreature to take him to the Weasleys so he doesn’t have to move.

 

All he has to do is be vague enough she can’t figure out who he’s talking about.  Should be easy enough, right?

 

Wrong.

 

Of course, maybe having a house elf apparate you through wards directly into someone’s home would make a person a bit tetchy, especially when said person was in the middle of preparing breakfast.

 

“Harry James Potter, are you trying to send me to an early grave?!”

 

He involuntarily smiles at Molly’s scolding, despite the fact he’s the one on the other end of it.  She’s the only adult, though now he has Andromeda and Narcissa as well, who will scold him out of love for him rather than fear or hate like his aunt and uncle and so many in the wizarding world.

 

“Molly, I have a problem.”  He says quietly, desperately.  “I’m sorry for startling you, but I need your advice.”  Seems vague enough, he thinks.

 

But he really should start remembering just how many children this woman has had because as it turns out, Molly can see straight through him.  All he says is that he’s feeling conflicted about someone he thought was a terrible person, but in actuality just tells terrible puns and she shakes her head slowly and suppresses a little smirk.

 

“It’s that Malfoy boy, isn’t it?”  She just sighs as she dishes him out some eggs and bacon as he sits down at her long table.  “You’ve always been rather fixated on him.”

 

He stares at her, flabbergasted.  He knows he looks like an idiot standing there with his mouth open but he can’t seem to bring himself to enough awareness to actually close it.  He didn’t think he had said anything incriminating, or that would draw her to that particular conclusion, yet here they are.

 

She tuts at his gormless expression and flips a towel in his direction.  “Don’t give me that look, young man! I know full and well just how much you used to pay attention to him, don’t think I never noticed.”

 

“Molly…”  He moans as he drops his face into his hands, trying to hide his flaming cheeks.  “It’s not just that…”

 

“Oh, I am very aware.”  She shakes her head before arching an eyebrow.  He wonders if she knows she’s mimicking an extremely Narcissa move and nearly snickers at the thought.  “Andromeda tells me you are meeting with her sister on a regular basis.”

 

It’s hard to tell if she disapproves or not through her matter-of-fact, no nonsense tone but he gives into the urge to spill it all.  “They’re both so...different than I expected.” He sighs, fully aware that he probably should have told Molly like he should have told Andromeda before this moment.

 

“Well of course!”  She says, finally relaxing her stern face.  “People generally have various masks they don when interacting with certain others.  If you’re seeing something different, that is something meaningful. Arthur, back me up here.”

 

“You are right of course, Mollywobbles.  Though today, I’m not sure what for.” He says as he sits at the table.  Harry hadn’t even heard him come down the stairs. Arthur must have felt his stare because he meets Harry’s eyes and grins happily.  “Good morning, Harry! I was fiddling with my new car in the shed.”

 

Well, that explains the lack of footsteps on the stairs.  His eyes widen. “You replaced the Angelina?” He loves how wizards used muggle vehicles.  First Sirius’ motorcycle and then the Ford they had crashed into the willow at the school.

 

Molly rolls her eyes.  “He did. And I would appreciate focusing on the discussion at hand.  You can look at the car next Sunday because Arthur needs to go to work and not muck about with muggle toys!”

 

“Now, now, Molly.”  Arthur said calmingly as he buttered a slice of toast.  “I have plenty of time before Kingsley is expecting me.”

 

She ignores him and leans forward slightly to speak earnestly at Harry.  “It’s only natural you would see Draco in a casual environment and see a different side to him.  And there is such a fine line between hate and love, Harry. Both emotions are full of passion, and the right trigger can change the direction it goes.”

 

It’s rather poetic when he thinks about it.

 

“She’s right you know.”

 

He nearly gives himself whiplash when he hears George’s voice from the stairs and they share a small grin.  Though George’s is tinged still with despair and exhaustion, he’s up and about on his own volition and that is something to celebrate.  

 

“Morning.”  Harry drawls, purposefully mimicking George’s own greeting from the morning of Bill’s wedding.

 

It draws a slightly larger smile before the other man sits and dishes himself a small bowl of porridge.  Harry knows the expression on Molly’s face, and is rather impressed with her resistance to pressing her son to eat more.  He figures that were she to do that, George would probably disappear as quickly as he appeared and if he suspects that, he knows Molly does as well.

 

“Morning, Harry.”  George yawns, and pokes a fork in his direction.  “So did I hear correctly? You might need to correct me, hard to tell sometimes with only one ear, but I think I heard you confessing you have a crush on Malfoy.”

 

He scowls at George, both for the comment and the casual reference to his cursed off ear.  A crush, honestly. He’s not a child. “He is _interesting_ .  I am _intrigued_ .  It is not a _crush_.”

 

George just wags his eyebrows at Harry mischievously, a long-absent gleam finally brightening the long-dull eyes.  

 

Harry wants to be mad, but he can’t.  Besides, he really does want advice on how to handle this situation.  “I just want to know, seriously, can people be _that_ different?  The side you normally see verses the side you unexpectedly do?”

 

He’s been dwelling on this question for the past five days.  Logically, he knows that of course people perceive others differently, and Arthur’s earlier words confirmed it.  He supposes the point of contention is that it is Malfoy with whom he is seeing the change in.

 

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him.  “Harry, I am certain you know the answer to that.”

 

He flushes.  He knows the answer, yes, he just can’t quite accept it yet.

 

“I say…”  Molly begins slowly, and Harry suddenly fears that she is about to tell him off for his relationship with the Malfoys.  She sighs. “I say, if you are happy and you feel safe, then you should continue to trust your instincts.”

 

It is not at all what he thought she was going to say, but it is certainly not an unwelcome statement.  It definitely clears away some of his anxiety about it all.

 

“What do I do?”

 

She shakes her head, a fond smile dusting her cheeks.  “Just be you, Harry. They obviously already like who you are, or they would not keep inviting you to their house.  And even if you won’t admit it aloud, it is quite apparent you are fond of _both_ of them, as well.”

 

~~*~*~~

 

 _Molly isn’t wrong_ , he decides as the door opens to reveal a gleeful Narcissa with Tibby shaking her bulbous head indulgently behind her.  It is apparent to Harry that Narcissa answered the door before Tibby could, and there was a chance the elf had been scolding the Lady about doing house elf work.

 

Tibby is amusing like that.

 

He flushes when he catches Draco’s eye as Cissa leads him into the dining room.  Harry is wearing his tight navy robes that nearly brush the floor and he suddenly feels quite exposed in the form fitting attire.  All the stitching is done in a gold thread and brings out bits of his eye color he barely notices otherwise. His hair is loose around his head, though he’s now questioning the more casual choice, even if no one is commenting on the improperness of it, so maybe he’s fine and feeling paranoid for no reason.

 

He’s been practicing when he eats at home, insisting Kreature sit at the table so he can do so, much to the elf’s amusement.  Kreature took to correcting his every little mistake, including when Harry would have Andromeda or one of the Weasley’s over, so now as he accepts a plate of brisket from Draco, he knows to pass it to Narcissa and flushes under her pleased smile.

 

The second plate is handed to him with a little twisted grin on Draco’s face and Harry suddenly knows that he’s about to be inundated with bad puns once again.  “Well, well, Potter. We...meat again.”

 

“Draco.”  Narcissa sounds like she’s giving him a verbal warning and for some reason it amuses Harry to know that no matter how wealthy the family and pure the blood, parents will still scold their children.  He thinks about the Burrow and Molly and desperately struggles to keep his grin off his face as she continues. “We are to be teaching Harry how to be appropriate amongst pureblood society. You are not helping.”

 

Harry knew by the look on his face that Draco knew he wasn’t helping, didn’t care, and wasn’t going to stop.  He was on a roll, and when Draco was on a roll, it was nearly impossible to stop him. Harry knew that much from school.  “So you’re saying you have a _beef_ with my bovine puns?  Are you a cow-ward, Mother?  Have you _herd_ them before?”

 

“Draco, this is not funny!”  She hisses and he just grins, all while Harry is still struggling to keep himself from laughing.  He’s finding it hilarious.

 

“Really?”  Draco looks so genuinely surprised Harry’s now nearly crying from the effort of keeping his mouth clamped together and his laughter deep inside.  “I thought it was rather a-moo-sing.”

 

Harry can’t hold it in any more.  He doesn’t care how rude it is to laugh at a pureblood table, but he can’t help it with all the stupid puns.

 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”  Narcissa’s voice is like sharp knives and they are all directed at her only son.

 

“So, you’re staying it would be-hoof me to obey?”

 

“ _DRACO_.”

 

“Fine, I will behave.”  He wrinkled his nose in irritation before winking at Harry.  He feels his stomach drop and instantly feels clammy at the action from the other boy.  What does the wink mean? Is he...flirting? Just sharing in the joke? Mocking him?

 

Can people mock others by winking?

 

The air fills with a sort of tense silence and Harry immediately hates it.  He hates it because it reminds him far too much of his life at the Dursley’s where he’s not sure if he’s done something wrong, or if he’s misreading the situation, and he bemoans his lack of social skills when it comes to reading people.  

 

Maybe he should mention this to Narcissa later.

 

Dinner passes in quiet, and Harry misses the jokes and puns from before.  “What am I learning today?” He asks for the sake of breaking the silence.

 

Narcissa swallows her bite and gives him an appraising look.  “It will occur after dinner in our ballroom.”

 

His stomach drops again.  “Not...dancing, right?”

 

She laughs and he’s not sure if he should worry or not. “Not yet.  You’re going to learn to how to properly greet people as you meet them whilst milling about.  A lot of this event is connection building for young Lords and Ladies.”

 

Great.  Networking and schmoozing.  Both are things he is terrible at.  Then again, he supposes that this is why he’s taking these lessons.  Malfoy’s puns are just a bonus, in his mind. “Do you really think I’ll learn this in one lesson?”

 

Both Malfoys laugh, though Draco’s is more of a snicker and Narcissa’s a gentle giggle.  “Harry, you’ll have a variation of this lesson every day you meet here until the ball. We’re going to have to teach you in a month what Draco and every other pureblood learned from the cradle.”

 

Oh, good.  One more impossible task for him to complete.  Combined with his ever growing...not crush on Draco, he's absolutely and assuredly doomed.

 

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 15

~~*~*~~


	16. Saturday 26 July

#  Saturday 26 July

 

##  Narcissa

 

~~*~*~~

 

She observes how Draco enters the room and immediately seeks out where Harry is, and her heart gives a little flutter at the sight.  She notices how Harry’s cheeks turn just a bare shade of pink at his entrance and she delights both in her observation skills and the air of eager discomfort that surrounds the pair.

 

“Good afternoon, Potter.”  Draco says as he sits at the table.

 

“Hey.”  Harry says, grinning brightly at him, and her heart nearly stops at the sight of it.  “Might as well call me Harry if you're going to make this a regular thing.” She’s certain it’s going to take a jolting spell to restart her heart if Draco doesn’t make a comment soon. 

 

“Good afternoon, Harry.”  Draco repeats with pink dusting his cheeks.  “I extend the same to you, naturally.”

 

It’s odd to her how carefree yet anxious her son is.  He’s a mixed up bag of emotions, that is for sure.

 

“Alright Draco.”  Harry replies easily, and she presses fingers to her cheeks in an effort to stem the stupid smile threatening to form.  He is precious in his actions and his words, and she’s certain he’s completely unaware of his charm.

 

She should have poured the tea first because when no one makes a move towards the pot, Draco sighs and lifts it up with oddly serious eyes.  “Let’s get this par-tea started.”

 

Oh must he?   She groans into both of her hands.  She’s not sure why Draco has decided that  _ this _ is the side of himself that needs to be brought back to the forefront, and she is certain her dignity will not remain intact throughout the experience.  She just needs to keep reminding herself that the only reason it went away is gone and Draco deserves some joviality in his life.

 

Harry snorts and shakes his head as he pours his tea.  “That one was lame.”

 

He shrugs a single shoulder and holds out the plate of rosemary scones for Harry to take.  “They can’t all be winners.”

 

He accepts the plate with a snicker.  “And there’s a phrase I never thought Draco Malfoy would say.”  Harry quips as he takes a scone and places the platter on the table, and she can’t stop the little bubble of laughter.that wells up.

 

Her son snorts and dips his scone in his tea before nibbling at it and she resisted the urge to make a face.  It is a dreadful habit he has always had, and she still hopes that one day he will stop.

 

“So Harry.  You’ll never guess who stopped by the manor this week.”  Narcissa says with a delighted smile. She knows the only reason she and her sister are even speaking again are because of the boy sitting at her table and she knows he is probably already aware of Andromeda’s visit yesterday afternoon already but she can’t  _ not _ mention the highlight of her year, let alone week.

 

“Hmm?”  She’s amused to see his eyes flick from Draco to look at her.  “Oh, Andromeda mentioned something about trying to work up the courage to make a visit.  Did she finally follow through?”

 

Her grin hurts her cheeks, but she has no desire to reign it in.  “I have my sister back in my life. No amount of apologies can repair the hurt I’ve already inflicted, but she said as long as I demonstrate with my actions that I am genuine in my remorse, she will forget her grudge against me.”  It’s not quite forgiveness, but it is a second chance, and for that Narcissa is immensely grateful.

 

She never expected even this much of a opportunity.

 

“Does this mean I’m about to be roped into... _ babysitting _ ?”  Draco voice climbs nearly an octave in pitch and she rolls her eyes before she can stop herself.

 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Draco.”  She admonishes her son gently, dabbing her mouth with her napkin as she finishes her little sandwich.

 

His mouth screws up in a sour look of distaste.  “But they don’t own a house elf, and Edward is still in nappies.”

 

Harry let out a tiny muffled giggle and Narcissa looks over at him to see his hand over his mouth and his cheeks red.   “Sorry. I just...I literally can’t imagine you changing a nappy, Draco.” 

 

Narcissa can’t picture it either.

 

“And I suppose you know how?”

 

She entertains herself with the knowledge that Harry is a sarcastic little shit at times when he replies with, “no, I just let him sit in it.”  He rolls his eyes and flicks a crumb of scone at her son. “Of course I know how to change a nappy. If you want, I can teach you.”

 

“Why on earth would I want to learn?”

 

“So you can be roped into babysitting your cousin.”  Harry says cheerfully and it has her biting a lip and Draco rolling his eyes.

 

“If you insist on teaching me to change a nappy, then I’m going to find something equally distasteful to teach you, just you wait.”  Draco says threateningly, and Narcissa thinks she can see a flicker of caution in Harry’s eyes before it clears and he just shrugs.

 

“I suppose I’ll have to defer to your exper-teas on the matter.”

 

Narcissa’s eyebrows shoot straight to her hairline when Draco gives an honest-to-merlin  _ snort _ of amusement before folding into himself from giggles at the absolute dry delivery from Harry before announcing Harry’s hopelessness at puns.  She smirks inwardly at her son and the young man who she’s grown to love dearly and hopes Draco pulls his head out of whatever cloud it is in soon and declares his intent already.

 

She’s not blind.

 

~~*~*~~

 

She finds Draco sitting in the garden holding the little potted cacti in his hand and staring at it intently, though she realizes as she approaches that his eyes are too unfocused to be intense and realizes he is probably lost in his thoughts once again.  She wonders if it would be better to leave him be or to alert him to her presence. 

 

She turns to leave but her robe sleeve catches on a bush.  The rustle has him looking up and the haunted look his eyes have breaks her heart.  “Draco, what is wrong?” She rushes to him when he sniffs once and looks away, eyes a little pink and she realizes he’s holding back tears.

 

“How, Mother?”  He whispers and she frowns a little before schooling her face smooth lest he think she is frowning at him and his pain.

 

“You’ll need to elaborate, love.”

 

He looks back at her and she pulls him into a warm embrace when she sees the absolute misery and confusion in his gaze.  “How can he sit there like I did nothing to him? Like I haven’t been calling him and his friends names, and hurting him, and making sure I’ve made his life a living hell?  How can he say that I might as well call him Harry like it’s no big deal?”

 

He’s hyperventilating by the end and is gasping between every word, tears streaming down his face as he clutches at her robes and absolutely breaks down sobbing and screaming.

 

She just holds him as he weeps, murmuring words of nonsense and using her long fingernails to gently trail along his back in a soothing wave.  His breakdowns have grown further apart as of late, and she hates to think that this latest was caused by Harry and his kind actions towards herself and Draco both because she knows Harry would be devastated were he to learn of this moment. 

 

When he finally calms and is able to pull himself away and wipe away the mess from his face, it is only then she answers his questions.  “He is Harry. He has an enormous amount of love he wants to share and the only way he can do that is if he forgives those who have wronged him.  He sees the real you now, Draco, because you have allowed him to see it. And you have seen the real Harry. I know this because we have had long discussions on his desire to be honest and open with those in his life due to the experiences he had growing up.”

 

“What about his friends, Mother?”  He demands, suddenly angry and feisty and almost like an angry kitten if she’s being honest and tries so hard not to burst into laughter at the mental image.

 

“If they can accept me in Harry’s life, they can surely accept you as well.”  And based on the last letter Harry informed her of, at least Hermione is accepting it.  Apparently Ronald has nothing positive to say on the matter, but he is a Weasley so it is to be expected.  “Allow Harry to make his choices, love. He wants to be friends, surely you can see that.”

 

Draco nods and she smiles softly at him, stroking back his hair from his face and he sighs.  “I wanted to be his friend when we were eleven, you know.”

 

“Oh Draco.   _ Everyone _ knew.”

 

The box of their years of Hogwarts correspondence still sits in her study.  Draco has wanted to be  _ something  _ to Harry for quite some time now.

 

~~*~*~~

End Chapter 16

~~*~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of my prewritten chapters. The rest are in fragments so updates will be further apart now. I feel so relieved having what I've gotten out, you have no idea. It was killing me knowing I had so much story and it would take so much longer for you to get it all and I couldn't bear it.
> 
> Next chapter is Harry's Birthday!


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